


in want of a wife

by AquaWolfGirl



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bisexual Ben (mentioned briefly but not acted upon), Bisexual Characters, Bisexual Poe, Cute, F/M, Historical AU, Historical Inaccuracies, I'm Ignoring Societal Conversation Rules and Censoring In Favor Of Banter, Lord Ben Solo, Marriage of Convenience au, Slow Burn, regency au, some OCs, status difference
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:33:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 52,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24418189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AquaWolfGirl/pseuds/AquaWolfGirl
Summary: Lord Ben Solo has no interest in the ladies of his degree. After years of associating with them and corresponding with even more, he fails to find a potential partner in any of the women he's met. In need of (and desperately wanting for) a wife, someone to care for and adore, he publishes an advertisement in the paper. Miss Rey Jackson, a woman of low social standing and no family of her own, decides to take a chance and inquire. At the very least, if he refuses her for a wife, she can see if there's a scullery maid position, right?A marriage of convenience Regency AU.
Relationships: Kylo Ren/Rey
Comments: 1210
Kudos: 2568





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm more than sure that a good portion of you will hate me for taking up another WIP, but I got bitten by the idea bug. And the Emma bug. And the Pride and Prejudice bug. This is intended to be sweet and slow and fluffy, with some attention to historical accuracy but not too much focus on semantics and exact detail. I hope it's as fun for you to read as it is for me to write. And believe you me, this was VERY fun to write.  
> Hope you enjoy!

She’s never seen the estate before.

She knows of it, of course. Knew of it before the advertisement in the paper. One of the finest houses in Derbyshire, if not the finest. When Mr. Taylor had to make a delivery up to Renberly a handful of months ago, the man wouldn’t stop talking about it. He made the delivery in October, and as she stepped into his shop to buy some holly in December, she still heard the estate’s name fall from his lips.

But no amount of eager, excited description from the general store owner could have prepared her for the magnificence of the home before her.

_Can such a house even be called a home?_

Rey frowns, walking through the damp grass towards the estate, the small bit of the newspaper clutched in her hand. The damp, misty morning air and the sweat of her fingers makes the thin paper even more delicate, ink smearing on the skin of her thumb as she holds tight.

This is a foolish endeavor, she’s sure of it. There’s a decent chance that she will be turned away at the door for such a position in the household, but perhaps there’s an opening for a scullery maid, or maybe a dairymaid. At the very least, she’ll maybe see the fountain that Mr. Taylor was so energetic about when he’d returned from his delivery.

The grass is damp, ground soft, and she’s more than certain that she’ll be arriving at his front door with mud on her boots and the edge of her dress soaked with morning dew. Perhaps she should have taken this into more consideration, put on her nicest dress. But that would involve mending the hole that she tore in it the last time she wore it, and there’s no time, not really.

Not if she wishes to be the first woman he sees this morning aside from his staff. Not if she wishes to make an eager impression. Perhaps a little too eager.

Ah, well. If she’s denied - and she’s fairly certain she will be - she’s denied. But there’s no harm in trying except perhaps some humiliation in the village, and she’s not very well thought of anyways.

The closer she gets to the house, the more difficult it is to comprehend just how big it is. On top of the hill, it looked so very small, a speck of cream in the distance. As Rey starts to walk up the road, there are trees on either side of her, grand and older than she can imagine. It makes for a fine picture, she will say that. She’s never seen a painting of the estate, but she can just imagine it. The road upwards, the trees narrowing in towards the house. It’s magnificent, truly, and does nothing to help her rapidly beating heart as she approaches.

Someone must have seen her coming. Or maybe Lord Ben Solo simply has someone standing to receive people at all hours. She doesn’t have any sort of idea of how anything works regarding the upper class, and she’s sure that it’s obvious to the man standing by the grand front door. He holds himself straight, his chin out as he watches her with a curious and judgmental gaze.

Of course she’s going to be judged, she just walked several miles in worn-out boots, now covered with partially-dried mud. And the bottom four inches of her dress are a disaster, brushed with green in some places from grass, streaks of brown on the damp muslin.

For all of the time she’s had this morning, since she set out before the stars had even winked their last, for all of the thoughts she’s had and mutterings she’d said under her breath in preparation for this moment, she finds herself speechless with nerves as she stares at the footman.

His coat, his trousers, even his stockings are a finer material than she’s ever touched, let alone worn, and she parts her lips only to find that words have escaped her entirely as she stares at him. He raises a dark brow at her, curious.

“May I assist you, miss?”

“Yes,” Rey says, finally, perhaps a bit too quickly. She squares her shoulders, holding herself as high as she can in the condition she’s in. She knows her hair has curled from the damp air, sticking to her neck and her brow as she shows him the ad. “I saw the advertisement, and I’m here to speak with Lord Solo.”

The man looks down at the clipping, the paper weak from her nervous hands and the moisture in the air, and she swallows her heartbeat as best as she can as he looks at her in something that can only be described as complete and utter befuddlement. She stares right back at him, holding his gaze before he nods.

“Come with me,” he says, glancing down at her muddied boots. If he’s concerned with them, he says nothing, but Rey does scrape them against the gravel of the walk and the stone of the steps, anyways.

Everything gleams. She’s used to rough wood and dirty stone, the small cottage she’d made her home these past few years on Plutt’s property an old and dilapidated thing. She should have assumed, given the outside state of the house, that the inside would be just as grand. Looking down, the marble floor is patterned with swirling vines and leaves in varying marble colors. There are busts of people she has never met before, and probably will never meet, their fine and stately features carved so meticulously she swears one will blink or breathe.

“Come along, miss.”

Rey continually glances upwards, the colorful paintings on the upper halves of the entryway wall, and the ceiling itself, more beautiful than anything she’s ever seen before. There’s significance to them, there has to be, but in the moment she simply looks. After all, there’s a very high chance this will be the last time she sees them.

She follows the footman, looking behind her to see if she’s tracked mud in, and she knows not whether to thank the gravel or her own efforts to scrape it off on the stone steps, but she’s not leaving a trail. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, she walks quickly to follow the man.

“I trust you have an explanation, Dopheld.”

Rey looks up and sees a redheaded man standing at the top of the grandest set of stairs she’s ever seen in her entire life. The cream marble shines even in the low light of early morning, and she clutches the advertisement clipping tighter, feeling the fibers of it bend and break slightly beneath her touch.

“She’s come to fulfill the advertisement, Hux,” the footman explains. “A Miss…”

“Rey,” she offers quickly, throwing in a curtsy. “Miss Rey Jackson, sir.”

She felt the footman’s eyes judging her before, but he may as well have just taken a passing glance compared to the scrutinizing gaze of the redheaded man. She can only presume he’s in a much higher position, given the condition of his clothes, even finer and more pressed and taken care of than the footman’s. Rey swallows, attempting to send her heart back down into her ribcage where it belongs instead of feeling it in her throat.

“For the advertisement,” the redheaded man says, sounding skeptical.

“Yes, sir,” Rey replies.

“You.”

“The advertisement specified a woman who cares little for looks or coin, and is in possession of good teeth,” Rey insists. “It said nothing of status or coin of her own. I care little for looks or coin, so long as I am provided for in some fashion, and I am in possession of good teeth.” Her voice hardens slightly. While the lord may judge her a fool for thinking she has a chance, she has no wish to be judged by anyone else in said lord’s company. “If I could speak to Lord Solo, I would very much appreciate it. If he denies, then that is his decision, and I shall be on my way. But please tell him that someone has come calling for the advertisement.”

There is a moment. A heartbeat of silence, and she’s damned sure that the two men can hear her pulse. She can certainly hear it, roaring in her ears as the redheaded man stares down at her. From the bottom of the stairs, it’s difficult to tell what his expression is, and part of her is certain that it would be just as difficult to discern his emotion if he were but three steps in front of her. But he stares at her for just another moment, and then he looks to the footman.

“Take her to the drawing room, please. The blue one,” the redheaded man says, and Rey has to wonder what sort of house this is to have multiple drawing rooms. The footman is walking off, and she hastens to follow him.

The entry hall was grand for a reason, she supposes. The walls and ceilings of the side halls are still far more ornate than any she’s ever seen, painted in a soft yellow with molding and lovely carvings. More busts and statues stand in between large windows overlooking the grounds, and she resists the urge to brush her fingers against the emerald green velvet of a bench. She’ll likely never feel anything so luxurious in her life again, but she also has no wish to ruin it with her clammy, ink-smudged fingers.

The doors to the drawing room are beautiful, painted in white and gold with vines and leaves and other natural things, and they open into a small but comfortable-looking sitting room. The redheaded man was serious when he said ‘the blue one’ - for she’s never seen so many blues in her entire life. There’s the blue of the little flowers that mean the beginning of spring, the blue of the sky on a bright summer’s day, the cool grey-blue of the mist she walked through this morning to get here. It’s on the walls, on the cushions, the couches, the chairs, the painted screens.

Rey steps into the room, seeing pieces of furniture she’s never recognized before. There are chairs, yes, and settees, and chaises. Things she’s seen in more basic form in Plutt’s house, the few times she was allowed into his drawing room. But there are oddly shaped wooden pieces, and she frowns, trying to figure out what they might be.

“Lord Solo should be in shortly,” the footman says. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

“Thank you,” Rey replies, knowing well that she won’t. She stands in the middle of the room, looking down at the wool carpet with all of its filigree and ivory and navy and gold and tassels. Gingerly, she lifts her boot, and sighs in relief when there’s no muddy print left behind.

Perhaps this was a poor decision. No, it’s most definitely a poor decision. One made on a whim in hopes of something more, of a chance to be taken care of for once in her life. But instead of stepping inside this place and feeling hope and awe, as she’d expected, there’s something else. Awe, to be sure, but the feeling of regret is making her feel cold and ill. She looks around, seeing the gold, the silver, the polished dark wood and shining marble, and she can’t help but feel like a stain in the middle of it all. Blotchy and smudgy, dirty and poor in the middle of so much wealth and beauty.

No, she doesn’t belong here, and she was a fool to even entertain the thought. She needs to lea-

Another door opens. Not the one she’s come through, from the hall, but another one from a different room. Rey’s gaze snaps to it, and she stares at the redheaded man as he steps through.

“Lord Ben Solo, I present Miss…?”

“Rey Jackson,” she says, tasting ash on her tongue that he would forget so quickly.

“Yes, Miss Rey Jackson,” he repeats, stepping aside to let the lord step into the room.

In the advertisement, there was mention of wanting a woman who cares little for looks or for coin. And she will readily admit she cares little for either, so long is there is kindness and compassion. It’s difficult to come by, but one must always hope these days. But there was also a promise made by the lord that he has one of the listed qualities, and as she’d seen the house over the crest of the hill, she’d decided that the quality he’d claimed to have fell more to coin than to looks.

However, as he steps through the door, she has to wonder if the advertisement was false, or written by someone other than him, for he has both.

She can recall the attempt of the butcher’s son to add shine to his hair one holiday, and how he applied lard to the locks. The result was a sticky, greasy mess of a boy, but if he had succeeded in his endeavor, Lord Solo’s hair is how she would have imagined that success. Dark brown waves shine in the early dawn, making his pale skin look even paler. The dark navy of his jacket doesn’t help, either, but it does make him look more imposing. Not that he needs much help. The man is a tower, wide as one, too, and Rey bows her head and curtsies quickly.

Perhaps too late to be proper manners. Probably too late. _Definitely_ too late.

He says nothing. This lord just stares at her as she straightens. His features are large and defined, though not so much of either to be considered intolerable. Full lips, a large nose. She regards him carefully, wondering if she should say something or if he’ll speak first.

The ticking of a timepiece somewhere in the room fills the silence, a welcome distraction from her racing heart as she keeps her feet planted, but extends the advertisement in explanation.

His eyes move from hers down to her hands, to the little cut snippet, limp now and draped over her fingers. It wasn’t that thick of a paper to begin with, but now she regrets using it to help her nervous hands, for it looks absolutely pathetic in her grasp.

“I saw the advertisement,” she explains, lowering her hand, and pulling the clipping into her palm as though to hide it. “I … thought I would inquire.”

“Inquire,” he repeats.

His voice is low. Soft, too, and she looks up at him as he steps forward. She expects a loud ‘thud’, a man of his size and presence surely makes it known. But the plush carpet softens it, and instead he’s almost silent.

“Yes,” she replies, firmly.

The redheaded man is standing in the doorway, still, watching their interaction with rapt interest. She’d forgotten he was there, if she’s entirely honest, until Lord Solo turns to him. “Bring tea, please, and something to eat as well.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The door is left open as he turns and leaves, and Rey can hear his footsteps getting farther away, echoing in the vast rooms.

She’d bet every coin she had that her whole of her little cottage would fit in this drawing room.

“You saw the advertisement.”

“Yes, I believe I established that,” Rey says. The lord is keeping his hands behind his back, making his shoulders look even broader and his figure even more imposing.

“And what is it that caught your attention so significantly that you walked all the way here?”

“The fact that you think your presence could be intolerable,” she replies honestly. “You suggested one would find you as such not once, but twice in it. I perceived it as a challenge.”

Of course, there is also the appeal of being taken care of. For in his offer of a home, gowns, hats, gloves, shoes, and whatever else she fancied, therein lies a promise to be cared for, at least monetary and material wise.

But how horrible would it be to confess such a thing?

He stares at her like she’s grown a second head, and she can’t help but feel as though perhaps she should have confessed that the idea of money is appealing to someone who has never had it. It would be a more logical explanation of why she walked all the way here this morning just to entertain and impossible fantasy.

They’re interrupted by the sound of a cart being brought, and Rey looks as the door from the hall opens to reveal the same footman from before.

The food somehow matches the estate itself. Though she’s familiar with some of the cakes and buns offered, the bakery in town making some of the finest and herself receiving the stalest if she asks politely at the end of the day, they look far more delicious than anything in town. Even the brioche looks fluffier, and she swallows, her mouth already eager for a morsel.

Her traitorous stomach growls, bringing the attention of both the footman and the lord to her as she flushes.

“My apologies,” she begs. “I haven’t eaten recently.”

She hasn’t eaten at all, today, truly. She has some bit of bread and cheese left, a chicken to be cooked when she returns home, but there was hardly time to eat this morning, and no sense in lighting any of the lamps beyond what she needed to get dressed. A waste of oil and wax, when she’d be lighting them for only a moment. No, it was easier to just go hungry.

“Then please,” Lord Solo says, gesturing to the table and the settee behind it.

She sits, as he remains standing, looking down at her. Scrutinizing.

If one is to die of humiliation and regret, she thinks, then one may as well do it on a full stomach.

✥

He wakes just before dawn.

It’s a habit from his younger years, back when his father would disappear for weeks at a time and left as the sun rose. In order to bid the greying man goodbye, little Ben Solo had to wake up before the sun illuminated the dew on the green grass, and the deep emerald leaves of the grand oak trees.

Lord Ben Solo is now far from little, but the habit has stuck with him even into his early thirties. And, truthfully, he enjoys it. There is still light, just enough to turn the mists surrounding his estates a pale grey-blue. It will be cold and wet today, he knows, but no matter. He has some correspondences to write, appointments in London to arrange. He will not go riding today, but that suits him just fine.

It’s not until after he’s finished breakfast, his quill freshly dipped in ink and a perfect piece of parchment in front of him, that his day — and life — is irrevocably changed.

“A woman is here to see you.”

“A woman?” Ben asks, frowning as he looks up at his manservant. “What does she want?”

“It seems as though the advertisement has been published, my lord. And she’s brought it with her.”

Oh, God save him.

The advertisement was a decision he had resisted making for months. He found himself at balls, at dinner parties, hearing the false, grating laughter of women trying their damndest to catch his attention. None of them appealed to him.

Inquiries about daughters and nieces and sisters in cities elsewhere did him no good. There’s age and eligibility to consider, and though correspondence occurred, he was never inclined to offer them anything. One can hardly get to know another through a piece of paper.

And so a decision had to be made.

He needs a wife.

And so he will find one, wherever she may be.

“Would you like me to send her away?”

“Why would you send her away?” Ben asks, his frown deepening as he cleans his quill and replaces the lid on his inkwell. “I’ll see to her.”

“She’s not…” Hux starts, before he huffs. “I would advise against marrying her, my lord. Or even speaking to her. She walked here. And she looks as far below your status as one could possibly be.”

“I like walking,” Ben replies. “And I put an advertisement in the paper, Hux. If I was looking for someone of a higher social standing, I would have gone to balls and inquired through acquaintances and friends. And I have. And I have no desire to wed any of the women I’ve interacted with. At the very least, if she has walked here, I should give her the courtesy of speaking to her. From there, it is my decision, not yours, is that understood?”

“My lord, I—”

“Take me to her.”

He can only imagine the state of this woman, considering the face his manservant pulls. But the redheaded man nods, and turns, leading the nobleman down to the lower floor.

And perhaps a warning truly was in order.

“Lord Ben Solo, I present Miss…?”

“Rey Jackson.”

Even without Hux informing him, it’s blatantly clear that she walked here, and walked a ways. Her soft, brown leather boots have mud and bits of grass on them, though he’s grateful to not see any on his carpet. The hem of her pale green and white striped dress is not nearly so finely embroidered as the hems of the ladies he associates with, and he can just barely see a bit of lace on the edge, more than likely her petticoat. Both are damp from the morning dew, and as his eyes move towards her face, he can see where her brown hair has curled and is sticking to her cheeks, her brow. Her freckled cheeks are flushed pink, her collarbone pink from exertion. She wears no chemisette, no coat, just a woolen shawl that looks well-loved and well-mended.

It takes a moment for her to bow her head and curtsy, the movement a little clumsy, but he stares at her, her dark eyes and her pink lips, and the way her fingers hold the bit of paper so gingerly.

She holds it out to him, as though an offering. “I saw the advertisement,” she explains. A heartbeat later, she is lowering her hand, and hiding the bit of paper. Her cheeks flush brighter, and he thinks it’s perhaps shame, or embarrassment that causes her to act so and avoid his eyes. “I … thought I would inquire.”

“Inquire,” he repeats.

“Yes,” she replies. Though her cheeks are flushed, pretty lips parted, her voice is firm.

Well, she is certainly a different candidate, isn’t she?

“Bring tea, please, and something to eat as well,” he says, looking to Hux. Oh, but entertaining her even for a quarter of an hour will be worth it to see Hux’s face alone. It’s no secret his manservant disapproves of his methods of finding a wife, but he will savor the redheaded man’s aghast look for the rest of his days in the man’s company.

“Yes, my lord.”

Ben looks back towards the woman. Miss Rey Jackson. A common surname. He can’t recall any Jacksons of significance in his circles, but he supposes he wouldn’t have, if she’s from the social standing he assumes she is.

That is, far, far below his.

“You saw the advertisement.”

“Yes, I believe I established that,” she says.

“And what is it that caught your attention so significantly that you walked all the way here?”

“The fact that you think your presence could be intolerable,” she replies honestly. “You suggested one would find you as such not once, but twice in it. I perceived it as a challenge.”

A challenge, she says. She sees this opportunity as a challenge, rather than a chance for a new life. Or perhaps it’s both. Regardless, he watches her carefully as Hux rolls the cart in.

Almost immediately, the young woman’s stomach growls.

It’s charming, really, how flushed she becomes. Her hand finds her stomach, and she looks to him, wide-eyed.

“My apologies,” she begs. “I haven’t eaten recently.”

“Then please,” Ben says, gesturing to where Hux is setting up the spread of cakes.

She doesn’t sit like a lady. There’s no hemming and hawing about how her skirts will look once she stands again, there’s no adjusting to ensure everything lays properly. She merely sits. Hux comes and pours tea, the smell of rose curling up with the delicate steam. Miss Jackson thanks the manservant quietly, before taking the cup between her hands and cradling it with all the care of someone who is all too aware of the cost of such an item.

“Milk? Sugar?” Ben asks. “Lemon?”

“Sugar, I suppose,” she says, setting her cup back down so that he may drop a lump in it. She looks down into it, taking her spoon and stirring until the sugar dissolves. “I haven’t indulged in sugar in a long time.”

“No?” he asks.

“Not like this,” she replies, but says nothing more as she reaches for a bit of honey cake. He can see her fingers are stained from the ink of the advertisement, no doubt a combination of the morning air and nervous fingers.

“Hux,” he calls. “A bowl of water and a cloth, for the lady to wash her fingers, please.”

“Oh, that’s not—” the woman starts, but she seems to think better, and stops. “It would be appreciated greatly, thank you.”

Ben nods, and Hux leaves. The lord remains standing, his hand coming to the back of a nearby armchair as he watches her. Instead of avoiding his gaze, she returns it.

“I’m assuming you know nothing of what it is like to be the lady of a house,” he says.

“You would assume correctly.”

“Then why on earth would you come to inquire about such a position so high above your social standing, and your experience?”

He can see Hux smirking out of the corner of his eye, the manservant setting the silver bowl of warm water by the young woman. Rey doesn’t look to him, instead staring at the lord, still. He can tell she’s considering his question, her fingers curled in her lap.

“You asked for a wife with good teeth, sir. There was no mention of experience regarding keeping a house, or knowing of etiquette beyond what is assumed she already knows,” Rey replies. “I am a woman with good teeth, and little care for coin or looks, as suggested in the paper. I care only for the kindness of those around me, and a roof over my head that preferably does not leak, but in my time I have learned to make due with what I am given.”

She’s right, and he knows it. He knew it when he asked the question, as well, but he wanted to hear what she would say. He watches as she reaches for the cloth and water bowl, quickly wiping her fingers of oils and the black ink smudges.

“And your family?” he asks her. He takes notice of her hands, the way they curl around the fine porcelain teacup once she has finished cleaning them. There are callouses, though there’s no dirt beneath her nails. Her boots and her dress are hardly her fault, and she does take pride and care of her appearance, it seems. “I suppose, if a decision is made, they should be invited to attend the ceremony?”

“You’re welcome to invite them if you’d like,” she replies. “But I doubt you would get a response.”

“Are you not close?”

“Not terribly,” she says. There’s a softness to her voice, now. “I suppose if you’re amiable to the idea of a ceremony in the village cemetery?”

Despite the dark nature of her joke, there’s a lilting to her words that he finds pleasant, even as his heart drops at his own obliviousness. “I … I am so very sorry. You have my condolences.” He doesn’t know what else to say, and he can feel the skin of his ears heat with embarrassment as he looks down at the carved back of the chair he’s leaning on.

“Thank you. It’s been several years, and I am not close enough to those I’ve associated with recently to wish for their company on such a day,” Miss Rey explains. He meets her gaze once more to find hers has softened, not quite as defensive. “My lord, one moment you are asking why I am here, and the next you are inquiring as to my family at the service?”

“If I were in no hurry to find a wife, I would not have published an advertisement in a paper that reaches households all across Derbyshire, regardless of income,” Ben explains.

“Are the circumstances dire?” she asks.

“No,” he replies. “I wish to be wed. That is all. I wish to have a wife to care for.”

It’s the truth. He’s seen the married couples at the balls, his friends as they laugh and touch their wife’s hand on their arm. He’s seen the warmth in their smiles, attended enough weddings to see men truly happy.

And he wants for such a life.

And it has become blatantly clear over the past two years of correspondences and travel and events that he would not find a woman fitting for such a life in his social circles.

“Miss Jackson,” he starts. “I wish to be wed. I’m assuming that, since you are here, you are open to the idea.”

Despite the mud on her boots, and the dew on her dress, and the ink on her fingers, and the perspiration at her temples, there is a presence to her he’s never experienced. And perhaps that is why, for but a brief moment, he imagines her in silk and lace. And it’s a fine picture, truly.

“I am,” Miss Rey Jackson replies. She holds her shoulders back, and he can see where her hair is stuck to her skin in perfect curls, a few pieces free of her pinned style.

“You are the first woman to inquire,” Ben explains. “I would say that puts you at an advantage.”

She smiles, and it’s sweeter than the honey cake on her plate. Her cheeks dimple, and her eyes crinkle slightly. “I would hope so,” she says, and he can hear the laughter in her voice. “I didn’t get up before the sun did to have someone arrive before me.”

“I will not ask you to come before the sun does,” Ben promises. “But if you are true in your intentions, I would ask to see you again. Such a decision should not be made lightly.”

“I see no reason why you should doubt my intentions, sir. A woman unsure of her intentions does not walk several miles through the mud and the mist.”

Her smile is bright, her nose crinkling slightly as she cradles the tea cup in her hand. He watches her as she takes a sip, her eyes lowering to the tea. Her lashes are dark against her freckled, flushed cheeks. She’s pretty, he’ll give her that. Far more tolerable than some of the women he’s had in his company.

“Eat,” he says. “Please. And then I would much enjoy a walk about the estate with you, if you’re open to more walking. Of course, if you are not, I would completely understand and we could remain here instead.”

“A walk sounds wonderful,” she promises, and there’s that smile again.

Perhaps a union is worth considering, if only to see that smile every morning.


	2. II.

Her stomach is fuller than it’s been in years.

Perhaps she over-indulged, but the honey cakes were the sweetest and fluffiest she’s ever had, unlike the dense cakes at the bakery in town. And the strawberries were sweet and juicy, perfectly red and small between her fingertips. Usually, if she wants berries, she has to go and pick them herself, risking tripping in the vines. But they’re worth it for a jar of jam, or a tart if she’s feeling like it.

She doesn’t often feel like it.

“You live in town?”

“In Budrow, yes,” Rey replies as they leave the drawing room in favor of the hall. It’s just as grand and overwhelming as it was before, but thankfully, the lord seems keen on matching her pace. And so she slows her steps so that she may look around, at the paintings and sculptures and out the windows onto the front walk.

“That’s several miles.”

“Yes?” Rey asks, as though it’s obvious as she turns and looks up at him.

He’s staring at her in something like awe and confusion, before his features soften. There’s no smile, not quite, but there’s something in the shape of his lips that’s appealing. “I see.”

“Have you always lived here?” she asks, her gaze shifting towards a grand painting of a man in military uniform with a grand white horse beside him. Judging by the size of the horse, and the medals and ribbons on his jacket, she can only imagine the type of power he had when he was serving.

“Not always. I have a home in London, and a smaller estate in Herefordshire,” he explains.

Three homes. Two estates, and one home in the city. Her mouth goes dry as she looks down at the marble floors, the checkered pattern one she knows is fashionable. She’d heard Mrs. Barnaby speaking about it, inquiring in town as to who could place such a pattern in her apartment. Rey thought it was absurd, at the time, to consider marble flooring in such a small space.

She still thinks it absurd, though it looks less so in a place as grand as this.

“Did you recently come to Renberly?” Rey asks. There are men lining the corridor, no doubt at the ready to open or close a window or door should the lord wish for it. How funny it is, to have so many people at the ready for such a simple task… “I knew the name of the estate when I saw it in the paper, but I don’t recall your name being attached to it.”

“Recent, yes,” Lord Solo explains. “I’ve had the estate in my possession for some time, but only a few months ago decided to make it my home. I’ve been traveling, partially for business and partially in search of someone I could call Mrs. Solo.”

“And even after all that traveling, you failed to find a suitable companion?” Rey asks, raising a brow as they come to the end of the hall.

“Yes,” Lord Solo replies simply. He nods at the pair of men standing beside a grand and ornate door, the flourishes and vines beautifully carved and painted so white they’re nearly blinding in the morning light. She rarely sees things so white and clean, her own gown laundered well but not so pure as the paint.

“I find that difficult to believe,” she says as they step through the opened doors into a larger room.

Upon first glance, there doesn’t seem to be any purpose to this room. There are a few benches, yes, beneath large paintings. Very, very large paintings, paintings larger than the largest wall of her house. Paintings of grand landscapes, nymphs and creatures and gods and goddesses with their soft pastels and bright whites between the trees. It takes Rey a moment to realize that the purpose of the room _is_ the paintings. It’s a gallery.

Rey steps up to one, eyes flitting from one detail to the next, the delicate brushstrokes, the rich colors, the care and caution taken to make something so beautiful.

“Do you paint?”

“No,” she replies immediately.

“Do you play?”

“No.”

“Do you read?”

“Poorly,” Rey admits, turning to look at the Lord as he approaches her, his hands behind his back, making his shoulders look broader. “Forgive me, sir, I am more than sure those are qualities you wish for in a partner, yet I have very little to contribute in terms of talent. If you are looking for a wife to show off, then I regret to inform you I will not be that wife.”

“You are aware you are not making a terribly convincing argument on your own behalf?” the lord asks, raising a dark brow at her as he comes closer. His footsteps echo in the large room, the wood flooring making the sound seem warmer.

Rey smiles slightly. “It would do me little good to lie and find myself pinned in the future,” she confesses. “I can sew. I can mend well. I may not be able to recite the wisdom of those from past ages, but I am clever. I can solve problems the ladies of your prior company wouldn’t even think of.”

“And what sort of problems are those?”

“If their ribbon frays, they purchase a new ribbon, do they not? If their laces break, they purchase new laces, do they not? If their gown tears, they ask someone with skilled hands to fix it for them. I do not have the coin or the luxury to purchase new things, or ask someone else to mend them for me,” she explains. “This applies to gowns and ribbons and bonnets, as well as garden gates and leaking roofs.”

She’s been in his company for an hour, which isn’t so much time, but still, he’s difficult to read. He regards her carefully, the silence awkward in the vast room, and she stares up into his dark eyes, waiting for him to fill it.

He doesn’t.

“Were these painted by a family member?” she asks, deciding she’s had enough of the quiet and turning to look up towards the large paintings before them instead.

“One or two,” Lord Solo responds. “For the most part, they are paintings that either came with the estate, or were given to me by friends and family.” He looks around at them. “I have no particular attachment to any. If there is a desire to have them removed by my wife, then they shall be removed.”

“It would be a pity to part with such beautiful things,” Rey replies, frowning as she steps forward to look up at a painting of a young woman. Another goddess, or a maiden, she supposes, sitting on the side of a well and peering down into the water, her smile soft. “Your gardens are magnificent.”

“Are they?”

“You don’t know whether they are or not?” Rey asks. She raises a brow at him, skeptical.

“I didn’t know that you had seen them.”

“I came over the hill,” she explains. “I saw them from a distance.” Of course, the mist covered a significant partion of them, but what she did see was far more groomed and green than the gardens she’s seen in Budrow. “They’re lovely.”

“Perhaps a walk through them when it’s not so damp,” he offers.

“I would enjoy that.”

“Sir.” A voice comes from the far door, deep and male. Rey turns, the single word echoing in the vastness. It’s strange, to consider a room where something echoes so well. Even the small chapel doesn’t echo so much as this room. “There’s another woman here to speak with you.”

“Tell her I’m entertaining someone,” Lord Solo says. “And to come back this afternoon, if it so pleases her.”

Rey watches as the man nods, and departs, leaving them to each other once more.

“And so this is how it will be,” she guesses, looking up at the lord. “You shall entertain the company of every woman who inquires about the advertisement?”

“Until I find someone I enjoy, yes,” he replies. “Who will be a good fit not only for the estate, but my own life.”

“It seems rather tedious.”

“Even more tedious was inquiring to my acquaintances about sisters, sister-in-laws, cousins, friends,” he replies. “And still I am not satisfied.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to suggest perhaps the problem is his preferences, but she bites down, her jaw clenched as she nods and looks up towards the painting once more.

“Shall we move on?”

He moves to leave the room, and she has no choice but to follow, her eyes lingering on the paintings for just a moment more before she leaves with him.

This hallway faces the gardens, and though the mist lingers, she can now see the perfectly trimmed hedges, and spots of pink and red and yellow. “Rose bushes,” she says, looking out the windows. Even the glass is spotless, something she’s never managed to achieve with her own panes of glass.

“Aye,” he says. “Do you enjoy flowers?”

“As much as anyone, I suppose,” she replies, moving to get a better look in an alcove holding a marble statue. He comes around to the other side, the twisted and soft body of a goddess between them as she peers down at the collection of hedges, bushes, and statues. There’s a fountain, as well, and she hums. “A pity Mr. Taylor didn’t get to see this one.”

“Mr. Taylor?”

“The owner of the general store,” she explains. “He made a delivery a few months ago, in October. He wouldn’t stop talking about your fountain in the front for months after. I daresay I was hearing about the ‘life-like figures entombed in marble’ until February.”

There’s a sort of snicker beside her, just a gentle snort, and Rey turns to look at the lord who’s attention is away from her, his gaze down towards the garden. Sensing her eyes on him, he looks to her. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she replies. “A pity he didn’t see this one, it’s far more magnificent.”

“And the one in front is not?”

“I never said that,” Rey insists. “They’re both beautiful, in their own way. One is smaller, more fitting of where it has been placed. The other is for show, and better represents its surroundings.”

There’s another laugh, this time softer, just a little more than a breath. And then there’s a smile. Or at least she hopes it is. The corners of his lips quirk up, so it’s something at least.

“So it is not better?” he asks.

“More magnificent does not mean better,” Rey replies. “It simply means more magnificent.”

He hums, turning from the window. She follows him, loathing to leave the beautiful view of the garden but eager to leave the chill that comes with standing by the window. She wraps her shawl closer around her, a bit of old fabric that she managed to make into a somewhat decent bit of soft warmth.

“You have an interesting way of viewing the world, Miss Jackson,” he says.

“Do you not encounter many people who think the way I do?”

“No,” he says simply. “I encounter people who would see the fountain in the gardens and insist upon making the one in the front grander. And once that becomes grander than the fountain in the gardens, then they would insist upon having the fountain in the garden be grander than the front. And so it would continue.”

“That seems like an awful waste of time, resources, and energy,” Rey confesses.

“I am inclined to agree with you.” A pause. “I have something to ask of you.”

“And what might that be, my lord?”

“You speak very candidly and honestly in the company of a man you have never met, who is significantly above your status,” he says. There’s something in his voice that makes her stop walking, and he stops as well, turning to look down at her. “It could be seen as off-putting, or offensive. I ask why you speak this way.”

“If you, sir, find it offensive, I ask you to say so,” Rey replies, attempting to ignore the chill that shudders down her spine, but regardless, her back and shoulders straighten and tighten in defense. He notices it, too. “I see two paths ahead, and I know not which one I will traverse down. If I am to become your wife, I have no wish to alter the way I have been speaking for the majority of my years in favor of a man. However, if I do not become your wife, and indeed have offended you, then there is little risk. For even if you have been offended, and wish to ruin my reputation as consequence, you would find no reputation to ruin.”

“I have not been offended,” he says quickly. “I was merely curious.”

“Then you have my answer, sir.”

She’s not entirely sure what she expected his answer to be. If she truly brought her mind to the edge of concentration, perhaps some amount of words regarding the women he’s met before. But she doesn’t receive that. Instead, she receives a not, and his back as he turns away from her to continue down the hall.

She follows, clutching the edge of her shawl and playing with the crocheted edge, a small bit of comfort in a place completely overwhelming and unknown.

✥

It’s a beautiful house, truly. She loses count of the paintings, the statues, the lovely little things that make it so grand. She asks about a few, and receives just as few answers. Some came with the estate or were given to him, like the paintings, in the gallery, but one or two busts he pauses, and describes a man of his family.

He came from wealth, that much is certain. His mother an heiress to a large fortune, she married for love rather than income. Admirable, Rey thinks, listening to the lord speak of his parents, both at an estate in Herefordshire, near to his smaller one.

“Do you visit them often?”

“No.”

That had been the end of that conversation, awkward silence between the two of them for a few heartbeats before she’d asked a question about some instrument in the corner of a gallery. It had been almost more awkward, for her lack of knowledge about such things was very much brought to the forefront of the conversation, but at the very least there wasn’t silence anymore.

The sun is high, the mist dissipated by the time she has decided she has overstayed her welcome.

“Can I offer you my carriage?”

Her stomach is full of a delicate soup, far more delicious and lighter than any of the stews she makes. He’d insisted upon her staying for lunch, and if she never sets foot in this house again, at the very least she can use her having eaten not one, but two meals at Renberly as leverage against Mr. Taylor. Hopefully if she divulges enough detail, he’ll give her a discount for months.

“I think not, sir, though your offer is extraordinarily kind and very much appreciated,” Rey replies as he walks her to the front of the house. She knows she’s probably being incredibly rude in that she’s looking at the painted walls and ceilings instead of him, but he doesn’t seem to mind too terribly. He probably understands she’s taking in as much as she can, for she’ll never see it again. “A walk after such a fine meal will be best. I thank you for it.”

“There is no need to thank me for an eight time,” he says, and where his tone could have been chastising or cruel, there’s something warm in his voice. Rey looks towards him as they approach the door, taking in his appearance once more.

He truly is a handsome man, despite his self deprecation in the advertisement, and she offers him a smile.

“Then instead of thanking you for the meal for a ninth time,” she teases. “Allow me to thank you for a morning well spent in good company. I do sincerely hope, sir, that you find a sort of company pleasurable enough to tolerate for the rest of your life, even if it is not mine.”

“Thank you.” His smile is small, but genuine. “Miss Jackson.”

“Lord Solo.” She curtsies, the act odd for her body considering she doesn’t interact with others often enough to curtsy on a regular basis. Still, she doesn’t wobble nearly as much as she expected, and so that’s something, at the very least. “Good day, sir.”

“Good day, Miss Jackson. I shall ask but once more about the carriage.”

“You know I am fond of walking.”

“Aye, I do.”

“And so I shall walk.”

“And so you shall walk,” he says, and she thinks there’s a soft chuckle in his voice before she leaves his home.

There are three carriages pulled up in front, the lace-lined curtains pulled back on several, revealing ladies far more beautiful, far more jeweled than her. She looks at their hair pins, their brooches, their necklaces, before she turns her head and focuses her gaze on the road.

“My lady…”

Rey casts a glance over her shoulder, seeing the lord standing in the doorway as the redheaded man helps one of the ladies from her carriage, her spencer a deep navy and trimmed with white rabbit fur. There’s a grace to her, and Rey can’t tell whether it was taught or whether those who have been born with silver spoons in their mouths simply take their first steps as graceful as a swan.

Regardless, she will never have that elegance, so she shrugs and continues on her way down the road.

At the very least, she got to see the fountains, and have two decent meals.

It will have to be enough, because she can’t see any reason why she should be called back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in updating this. I'm incredibly appreciative of the response - am blown away, actually, but posting something fandom-related felt a little wrong for a few days, until I made peace with the fact that in a world that is filled with so much injustice and cruelty, for my own mental health I need to find some happiness to balance it out. And for me, writing is my happiness. 
> 
> For so many of us, fanfiction provides a method of escape into a world that isn’t our own. But there are things we can’t - and shouldn’t - escape from, and that is the systematic injustices that have been occurring in our world for quite some time now, not only in the States but in other countries as well.
> 
> If you enjoy the worlds I create, I ask you to make a difference in ours. The link below is updated frequently with funds to donate to, as well as petitions to sign if you can’t afford to donate, and so many other resources to help with educating and making progress in a world that's been dragging its feet at the doorstep of equality for so long. I’ve been sharing things I come across on my Twitter account, so please check there as well for information and more ways you can help. 
> 
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, see that "Historical Inaccuracies" tag? Yeah, it's going to be flexed upon because Regency courting methods were very serious and very odd and this entire story's premise is already breaking so many of them so might as well go big or go home, right?
> 
> The response to the last chapter was absolutely incredible, and I'm so very grateful and so very lucky to have such wonderful readers! Thank you for all of the kudos, and especially all of the amazing comments. I've had a rough few days, and so to go back and read them has been the best thing possible. Thank you all so much, and I hope you enjoy this one! (It was a fun one!)

After such opulence, it’s almost a relief to go home to her small cottage. In truth, ‘cottage’ is perhaps too beautiful a word for what’s essentially a small shack, but she does her best. The flowers out front may be truly weeds, but they blossom beautifully in the spring, and so she lets them be. She repaired the roof last fall, and though she could have paid someone to do it properly, it would have cost money she doesn’t have.

The door squeaks as she returns home from her chance encounter, the cottage cold and a little damp, but at the very least she has some daylight still to light some candles and get the fire going. She’ll retrieve the laundry tomorrow, she decides as she settles onto a small settee with a groan, eager to pull her boots off.

There are two rooms, a living area and kitchen, and her bedroom. All of the furniture she acquired over the years from Plutt’s home or pieces that people left in favor of new fashions. Those she doesn’t find often, but occasionally there will be word of a chair or a table that’s too rickety for someone’s liking or that has been visually ruined by a child’s foolish action. Though not too pretty, it is functional, and so she makes it her own.

At the very least, her bed is decently comfortable, or perhaps it’s just the fact that she walked for most of the day that it feels so warm and welcoming. A tender, soft embrace that helps her sink into sleep within a handful of heartbeats, the sounds of the night and the crackling fire a lullaby to her tired mind.

She can feel the effects of her walk the next day, her thighs and calves and feet aching as she walks into town. By now, word of Lord Ben Solo’s advertisement has spread, and she can hear a few maids giggling as she walks by, his name on their lips and possibilities in their heads.

Mr. Taylor readily gives her a fairer price on a few candles in exchange for what she’ll admit is a slightly fanciful description of the garden fountain. She keeps her secrets about the rest of the house, and the meals she had. She’ll save those for winter, when her garden is hard and cold, and her preserves are dwindling low.

“I don’t suppose you’ve gone and seen Lord Solo, have you?”

“Indeed I have,” Rey replies, smiling at Mrs. Marston. The owner of the bakery has always been kind to her, giving her bits too burned to sell but are still something Rey doesn’t have to make herself.

“Oh, now, what was he like?” the older, plump woman asks, her cheeks rosy from the heat of the oven and her smile sweet as she starts to wrap up the two loafs that Rey asked for, as well as some extra goodies Rey can see are a little too charred along the bottom for sale. The brunette smiles in return.

“Handsome,” she answers immediately. “And … sad.”

“Sad?”

“He’s spent all this time looking for a wife, and no woman has pleased him,” she says, a bit of laughter in her voice as she watches her loaf of pumpernickel be wrapped in the cloths she brought. “I daresay he’s too picky. I can’t imagine not finding a suitable candidate after traveling through London alone, not to mention that he has an estate in Herefordshire, and has no doubt traveled beyond that in search of a companion.”

“And you haven’t heard from him?”

“No, and I don’t expect to,” Rey replies matter-of-factly, keeping her smile bright as the burnt sweet rolls are wrapped up as well. The honey will be a pain to scrub out of the cloth, but it’s a treat she can’t refuse, and so she smiles and watches. “I may have been the first one he saw, but as I was leaving, there were three carriages already outside, and more down the road with finer ladies than I. I have no doubt he’ll choose one of them. I only hope for his happiness.”

“Perhaps it’s better that way,” Mrs. Marston says as she reaches over to slip the bundles into Rey’s basket. “A man so picky about his companion is no doubt picky about the rest of his life, and to be wed to him would be miserable. Better to find a husband who likes his eggs any way I serve them, so long as they’re hot, hm?”

Rey laughs, passes over the few coins for the bread, and makes her way back down the road.

The roof seems to be holding steady, but there may be a need for some adjustments, soon. She lights the fire once more and settles into an old chair that has some nicks along the legs, too deep to repair properly, but doing little to harm the structure of the chair. Of course, there’s also the giant tea stain, which while fixable is taxing to do so, and requires finding nice fabric she can’t afford.

Rey sighs, and puts the kettle on, needing something to banish the chill the early spring air has decided it prefers.

Her little book of poetry is almost falling apart at the seams, which means she’ll have to either find another copy, or have it rebound. It depends on which one is the cheapest, considering she’ll need to save to have the roof fixed proper one of these days, not to mention wanting to purchase a few chickens, as well as the coop and the fence they need…

That will take time to build, if she doesn’t pay someone for it. No, she can’t pay someone for it, that’s ridiculous, she can do it herself…

For a moment, just a brief moment, she tries to send herself back to Renberly, where tea and cakes and breads were brought out without her needing to buy or make them. Where there was sugar, sweet and plentiful, and the room was warm without her needing to constantly check the fire. Where the settees and chairs didn’t have nicks or stains, where the air wasn’t damp and the flowers were pruned and sunlight poured in from spotless windows.

She only gets a moment, because that’s all she can afford, before spring rain starts to come down on the roof, louder than it would be at Renberly, she’s sure.

She sighs and opens her book, looking up every few lines or so to look for drips.

✥

The letter comes a week after her return home.

She’s out in the garden, picking what she can of the rosemary she has in hopes of getting a free loaf from Mrs. Marston in exchange for the fresh herb, when she hears a horse.

She hears horses all the time, of course, but to hear one stop in front of her house is unusual, and she frowns, turning and straightening, her apron full of greenery as a young man swings himself down and approaches.

“Miss Jackson?” he asks.

“Yes?” she replies.

“Wonderful,” he breathes, grinning as he tips his hat to her, and she can see in the damp morning air that he’s had the same problem she’s had in the early mornings, dirty blond locks sticking to his brow. He walks towards her and offers her a letter.

Rey stares at it, quickly dropping the rosemary into her apron before reaching with her now-free hand, fingers shaking a little as she sees the beautiful maroon seal and fine paper. “I do believe you have the wrong Miss Jackson, sir,” she replies, looking at it before trying to hand it back and loathing the fact that she’s already dirtied it with her fingers.

“Miss Rey Jackson?” he asks, frowning.

_So not a mistake, then…_

She pulls the letter back towards her, feeling as though the air has been knocked from her lungs as she looks down at the seal. A proper seal, with a crest and everything…

Oh, dear God.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, fishing in her pocket for a spare coin. “Please forgive me, it’s all I can offer in thanks.”

“It is not needed but very much appreciated, thank you, miss,” he says, tipping his hat before getting back onto his horse. Rey watches as he turns and makes off, trying to see if … no, there aren’t any bags on his horse, and his small satchel looked bare…

Perhaps she was the last he was to deliver it to. That would make sense, if it’s a sort of ‘thank you for your interest’ letter, she thinks, quickly stepping inside the house and dumping the rosemary into a basket to be taken later. Yes, that’s exactly what it is, she decides, opening the letter while standing because she can’t bring herself to sit.

To see the crest is one thing, but to see his name is another. She leans against the doorway, her thumb lifting to her lips as she braces the nail against her lower lip, teeth nervously coming down to rest on rosemary-stained flesh.

From his estate, dating the night before.

_Miss Jackson,_

_I do hope this letter finds you well. I have wish to thank you for your visit to Renberly._

His handwriting is small and neat, much better than hers, no doubt thanks to his education and status. Rey frowns more deeply, because that’s truly all she was expecting, wasn’t it? And yet the letter is just a bit longer.

_I commend your bravery and determination in coming to speak with me, and must express my admiration for your composure and manner of speaking. I must admit I regret for so many years seeking a companion in a woman whose assets and heritage resemble mine, for it has become very clear to me that the sort of partner I seek will not be found with such traits._

Rey’s brow furrows, attempting to read it in his voice, his tone, trying to discern what exactly he’s saying, because surely he can’t be saying what she thinks he’s saying. No, it makes no sense, the man she spoke to but a week ago is no fool. In fact, he’s quite the opposite. With so many ladies of higher degrees coming in drove, surely…?

_If you have the time, and if it so pleases you, I would enjoy your company once again at Renberly. I have matters to discuss with you that are difficult and lengthy to include on paper, and it is a discussion I would much rather have while seeing your face. If you refuse my offer, then I hope you will perhaps consider at the very least dinner so that I may wish you well in person. If you refuse even that, know that I wish you the best of luck in life, love, and any other endeavors that may come during your time._

_I will expect you within the next two days. If I do not see you within that time, I will accept my offer as rejected, and shall continue to blessed by the moments of your company that I enjoyed a week ago._

_Best,_

_Lord Ben Solo_

His signature is beautiful, but she only glances at it before her eyes find the words that made her heart skip in her chest like a gleeful child.

_If you refuse my offer._

She rereads it. Over, and over, and over again. It’s not such a long letter, but she tries to find some other meaning, because surely he can’t mean… No, he can’t.

Except she can see no other offer except for the offer of dinner, and he clarifies that in the next line. The offer he keeps mentioning…

She didn’t speak a word of a scullery maid position to him. And she didn’t say it to the other men, either, she doesn’t think. And so the offer he so speaks of—

“Oh,” she breathes, her hand flattening against her lips as though to hold her breath in her lungs, for fear of losing it and expiring.

She glances to the clock. It’s only eleven in the morning, it took her a few hours to walk there, yes, but she can get there in time for…

No, would it be better to wait? Would it be more proper to wait until morn, to meet him when there is no possibility of interrupting dinner? Or nighttime reading or whatever one does when one is of his status? Count money?

Her pelisse is worn, needing to be hemmed at the bottom after it caught on the rough fence of Mr. Alder’s farm, but it will have to do. The chill today is worse than it was the first day she walked, and so the deep grey wool will have to do for now. At the very least, he’s already seen her, seen her muddied boots and hem, and no doubt the man who delivered her letter will have some words about her abode.

He knows who she is, he knows what she wears, and yet he still offered.

For reasons she doesn’t know and can’t possibly begin to comprehend, he offered.

✥

The skies open on the way to the estate, and by the time she comes to the front door, she’s soaked through and shivering. Thankfully it’s not so dark, and besides, there are seemingly hundreds of lights in the windows of the house. A beacon in the storm as she’s rushed inside by a man she hasn’t seen before.

“I forgot to extend the offer of my carriage.”

It’s charming, truly, the look of horror and shame on the lord’s face when she’s brought to him. She feels even more awkward than she had her first visit, and where before she’d worried about mud on the floors, now she fears she’s dripping onto the expensive rugs. And, looking down, she sees that yes, indeed, she is.

“You say that as though I am unused to traveling in such weather,” she teases, reaching up to brush some wet hair from her face as he quickly steps towards her. “Good evening, Lord Solo.”

“Good evening,” he says, wide-eyed as Hux starts to rattle off orders. Something about a new chemise, a new petticoat, a bath. Her soaked pelisse is guided from her shoulders, a warmed cashmere shawl draped about her shoulders for warmth. Her hair is still dripping slightly, and she offers the lord a sheepish smile.

“It was not raining when I started my walk, I promise you, my lord,” she insists. “If I had known I would become a burden—”

“No, no,” he interrupts. “No, not a burden. I … you received my letter?”

“I did, yes. It’s…” she turns, frowning as she sees her coat has disappeared. “It was in my coat, I…”

“No matter, you read it,” he mutters. There’s this moment where his hand raises, and she swears that he’s about to take hers, but he doesn’t, and she has to admit she’s disappointed. “And… you’re willing to have such a discussion?”

“I am, yes.” Her heart feels as though it’s in her throat. She’s still shivering, though the cashmere shawl helps. “Very willing, yes.”

He sighs in what she hopes is relief, and says. “Good, very good.”

“You wrote of an offer,” Rey says, her stomach flipping and her pulse hammering in her chest, but she must know… “I enjoy your company as you have said you enjoy mine. And if your offer is one of friendship or employment, then I will accept readily. However, Lord Solo, I must ask, and consider my time here, for I have no wish to impose upon you more than I already have. If your offer is one of marriage, please let it be known. As wonderful and warm as your hospitality is, if nothing is to come of my presence here, I wish to know, and remove myself from here lest I feel even more indebted to you than I already do.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what, Lord Solo?”

“Yes, I wrote to you regarding an offer of marriage,” he clarifies. She can see that the high of his cheeks is flushed.

For a moment, it seems as though time seems to still. She can no longer hear the crackling of the fire, can no longer hear the ticking of the grandfather clock in the distance. She can still feel the warm cashmere against her chilled and damp skin, can still feel her heartbeat hammering between her ribs, her breath coming short as she stares at him.

“Miss Jackson?” he questions, voice low and soft.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, I … thank you. For informing me.”

“It was a conversation I had hoped to have over good food and good wine, and not with you standing drenched in the middle of my drawing room.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Rey replies, laughing a little because it’s all she can do. Laugh.

And so she keeps laughing.

What starts out as a short, breathy, proper, pretty laugh quickly turns into giggles, unbecoming and unflattering, she’s sure, as she reaches her hand up to cover her mouth.

Because it’s ridiculous, isn’t it? It’s absurd. It makes absolutely no sense what so ever for him to extend such an offer to _her_ of all people, and she keeps laughing until her stomach aches and her chest is heaving and her breath is coming in short gasps.

The lord stares at her, and she can feel the eyes of his men on her as well, all confused by her apparent sudden loss of sanity.

“Forgive me,” she begs, the words just barely audible. Out of the corner of her eye, he steps closer, no doubt to hear her better. “Forgive me, I just … the thought of you extending such an offer to me is … is _absurd._ ”

“Are you declining it, then?”

“No!”

That was too loud, but he doesn’t flinch as she turns and looks to him. He is handsome, yes, in a way she hasn’t seen admired. The girls in town usually fall for the men of the militia, the blonde haired and blue eyed boys who smile and wink and laugh and pick up their handkerchiefs and offer them back with a flourish. The charmers.

Lord Solo is not a charmer. He is awkward, if his sudden standing at her arrival and his immediate regret and shame at not having offered his carriage is anything to go by. And also just from the nature of the advertisement itself, and his offer of marriage to her of all people.

“No, I just…” Rey starts. “I don’t…” What is she trying to say?

“Dinner will be ready shortly,” he says, in that voice. Low. Soft. Warmer than the cashmere around her shoulders, than the fire crackling nearby. “Bathe. Change. And we can have our conversation then?”

“Yes,” Rey agrees. “Yes, please.”

“But you are not declining,” he clarifies, leaning down just a little, as though to hear her better, and she can’t help but smile.

“No,” she says, very clearly. She makes sure to draw it out, just a little, risking offending him, yes, but also wanting to make sure that he hears her. “No, I am not declining you.”

“May … may I assume the opposite is true, then? That you are accepting?”

There’s an eagerness in his voice that she hasn’t heard before. Then again, she’s only been in his company for a handful of hours. There are many tones, many emotions she hasn’t heard in his voice.

And, against perhaps better judgement and all logic, she’s looking forward to hearing them.

“You may assume so, yes,” she says, laughter returning to her voice.

He doesn’t give her a full smile. She assumes she will have to earn that. But the corners of his lips quirk up, and it’s bigger than the smiles he gave her during their previous meeting.

“I look forward to dinner, then,” he says.

“Miss Jackson?”

Rey turns, looking over her shoulder to see a young woman, her age or perhaps a year or two younger. She’s pretty, with the biggest brown eyes Rey’s ever seen and hair pulled back. A maid, no doubt, to help attend when ladies come to visit.

Rey wonders how many ladies she’s attended in the past week.

“Miss Everly, please take Miss Jackson to the emerald bedroom and have her bathed and dressed for dinner,” Lord Solo says.

The maid gives a curtsy. “Right this way, miss.”

Rey looks to the lord once more, offering a curtsy of her own before saying, “I’m looking forward to it, too,” just as soft as he had spoken. She smiles before following the young maid.

Her heartbeat is still rapid, and she wonders how long it will take for it to subside.

She moves to grasp her wrist, digging her nails into the soft flesh on the inside, the pain reassuring her that yes, this is truly happening, and she did not fall ill several miles back, collapsed on the side of the road.

This is truly happening.

For whatever reason, this is happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you've enjoyed this chapter, please leave a comment - I love them and they keep me writing! If you've really enjoyed this chapter and have the means to, please donate to any of the places listed in the site I posted last chapter. There are still so many places that need help to fight injustice and bring peace to the families of those lost to cruelty.


	4. IV.

“I do sincerely hope you realize that you are making the gravest mistake of your life.”

Hux’s voice cuts through the silence, and Ben turns to glance at him. The redheaded man is looking at the puddle Miss Jackson left on the floor, soaking into the ornate rug. He stares at it with all the disdain for something horrid.

“Grave? Truly?” Ben asks, his face devoid of emotion as he regards Hux.

“Then what else shall I call it?” Hux demands. “The poorest decision, the worst decision? It certainly isn’t the best one, considering it will drag you into ruin within months.”

“How, exactly, will marrying a young woman drag me into ruin?”

“Marrying a young woman of inferior birth and no fortune, no family name, no inheritance,” Hux hisses as Ben turns to leave the room. The redhead follows, spitting vitriol. “She will not be a wife, she will be a project, you do understand this? She is an investment, and one that you will never get return on. A lady of a higher degree would not require tutors or an entire wardrobe of new clothes. If you choose to marry Miss Jackson—”

“Chosen,” Ben interrupts, turning to look towards his steward and, more often than not, unfortunate companion. “I have chosen Miss Jackson. I care not about investing in her etiquette and wardrobe if what I gain in return is a woman I can speak to who will not preen her feathers and squawk every unoriginal thought she’s ever had.”

Perhaps it’s cruel, but he has to confess, the conversations he entertained with several ladies at the balls in London blurred together after the fourth woman. They were all lovely, to be sure, but lovely makes a pretty match, not a perfect one.

And though Miss Jackson has her flaws, his conversations with her were far more entertaining than those he’s had with others previously.

A unique perspective brought into his world may do it some good. Challenge it. Hopefully brighten it.

“Forgive me for saying so, my lord,” Hux says, with all of the bitterness of someone who knows that what he is about to say will offend. “But I daresay you think too highly of yourself, and too little of the women you’ve encountered. I can think of several who would make a more suitable companion than Miss Jackson, as charming as she may be to you in this moment.”

“In this moment, and when I last spoke to her,” Ben clarifies. “She has been charming during the entirety of our interactions, and I do believe it is a pattern, Hux.”

“You can be charmed by her, to be sure. But there is more to a decent wife than charm.”

“Yes, I’m well aware. Which is why I picked her.”

There are few things in life that give him greater joy than hearing Hux’s long suffering sighs. It’s not often that he hears them, for the man does not show his exasperation often. But to hear the sound confirms he is making the right decision, and he continues on towards the dining room.

“I want you to make arrangements for all that she requires. A lady’s maid. A tutor. A wardrobe, complete with accessories. Jewelry, as well. I will inquire as to the rest of her things during dinner. Everything shall be moved here.”

“Yes, sir.”

It is still astonishing to him, how much venom his steward manages to slip into two such short words. However much they bicker and disagree, Hux does his job and does it well, and so he has no intention of letting the man go any time soon, unless Hux himself implies it. And for all of his bitterness, he has shown no wish to leave, and so he shall stay.

Ben turns around to face the man, and Hux stops, raising one brow in question of their pause.

“I am doing this for my own happiness, of which I will be the judge,” Ben explains.

“Of course, sir.” There’s a little less vitriol this time, though not much. Still, he will accept it as they enter the dining room.

✥

He wasn’t expecting much, and indeed, he doesn’t get much. He cannot offer her any finer gowns, doesn’t have anything to offer her that is fanciful or decorated. The petticoat and dress she was lent is no doubt one of the maids’, and so he will have to inquire and thank properly.

It’s plain, the petticoat’s olive green color peeking through the thin muslin dress overtop. The mustard-colored bow beneath the bodice was obviously added to make the simple dress seem more elaborate, and he appreciates the effort as he turns from the fire towards the woman he’s chosen to be her wife.

She has no jewelry, and no gloves. Both of these will have to be fixed. Her hair’s still damp, carefully arranged and pinned by skilled fingers, her cheeks and chest flushed from the warm bath, he presumes. But she looks less pale and chilled than she was when she first crossed his threshold, and she offers him a smile as she enters and curtsies.

“My apologies for the wait, Lord Solo,” she says. Her curtsy is not so smooth or elegant as those of the ladies he’s entertained before, but no matter. A simple thing that can be remedied.

“I trust you’re sufficiently warmed, now?” he asks.

“Yes.” There’s laughter in her voice, and he’s glad to hear it. “I pray I was warmed in time, and that I will not fall ill.”

“I give you my word that you will be taken care of well if you do,” he promises, and then he immediately wishes to retract his statement. “Not that you will not be taken care of well if you don’t fall ill, you will be taken well care of regardless, but I …”

He trails off, unsure of what to say next, but her gentle smile relieves his embarrassment, if only slightly. The way she bows her head and then looks back up at him coyly is something he’s seen from many finer ladies, and yet it has never had the effect on him that her glance does. He nods, moving to sit as a footman helps Miss Jackson into her seat.

He wasn’t expecting company tonight, much less hers. He was expecting her arrival the next day, if he’s entirely honest, and so dinner’s smaller and less grand than he would have liked. He guesses that even the simplicity of the meal is a grand and luxurious dinner to her, though, seeing the way her eyes widen as she considers the spread before them.

“Pheasant,” he explains. “Mashed potatoes with cream and butter. French beans, mushrooms. Macaroni, as well.”

“I have never seen so much for one meal,” she admits, and he can see that the flush of her cheeks has become slightly darker as her gaze darts from one dish to the next.

“If you dislike something, then please inform me,” he says. “And I shall inform the staff.”

“I doubt I will, sir,” she replies. "You will find me perhaps the easiest person in the world to please." It's teasing as her plate is filled with meats, the macaroni with cheese, and servings of vegetables and potatoes. He picks up his fork, watching her from the corner of his eye as she hesitates. 

It’s only after he takes his first bite that she takes hers, a delicate nibble of the meat, obviously savoring it. She tries the potatoes, next, and he’s privy to seeing her eyes widen.

The cook, Mrs. Hale, does not skimp on butter or cream, and he’s more than sure that if Miss Jackson has had mashed potatoes before, she has never had a kind such as this. To see her so plainly enjoying them makes him smile a little as he looks down at his own plate.

“What amuses you, my lord?”

“You,” he answers plainly. “And your joy with simple things. It is refreshing after surrounding myself with company who are not pleased with even the most complex and fanciful things.”

“I hate to think of a day I will not find joy in the things that life offers me, be they plain or fanciful,” she replies. The candlelight dances on her skin, and he notices the freckles across her chest, her cheeks, her arms. It’s rare to see marks on the ladies he’s associated with before, their time in the sun not so much as Miss Jackson’s, to be sure. But it’s charming on her, especially in the warm light.

The pheasant is cooked to perfection, seasoned beautifully, and the beans in their delicate cream sauce are tender but still slightly crisp. The produce grown in the hothouses is wonderful, but there is nothing so delicious as those grown in the garden in early spring. The flowers are blooming, yes, but they’re not at their full beauty yet.

He’s looking forward to a future day where he can lead Miss Jackson down through the roses, in full bloom and colors vibrant in the late spring sun.

“I hope I am not wrong,” he says. “In presuming eagerness, that you should come here the same day you received my letter, instead of waiting when the weather was more agreeable.”

“The weather was quite agreeable when I left my home, my lord,” Miss Jackson replies, reaching for her glass of wine. She’s barely made a dent in her meal, all of her bites small so as to make it last longer, he supposes. A habit of her upbringing, perhaps. “But you are not wrong in my eagerness.”

“I am glad for it. May I inquire as to your family, how they were? You need not answer if you have no wish to.”

“No, I have no issue with the subject,” she insists. “They were simple people, so I’m told. I was young when they passed. I was then put into the care of Ulmer Plutt until his death about three years ago. I did not inherit his property, and no one has since claimed it. I have been living on it since his death, in what was once a butler’s quarters. It’s not a large or fair piece of land, and the house is in significant disrepair. I presume no one wishes to deal with the trouble.”

“I am sorry for your loss.” It’s all he can think to say. “All three of them.”

“I only consider two of them losses,” Miss Jackson replies plainly.

“Ah.” He decides to change the subject before she can inquire as to his. “I will be making arrangements soon with Mr. Hux for a new wardrobe, and tutors to prepare you for the company of those I associate with.”

“Am I to assume that our marriage will not be taken joyfully by those you associate with?” It’s said just before she takes another sip of wine, her brows raised in question and lips reddened from the sweet liquid.

“You can assume so, yes. Unfortunately.”

“Your honesty is appreciated,” she replies.

“I see no reason to respond with anything else.”

“Still, it’s appreciated. I thank you, my lord.”

Her hair is drying, now, and he can see the little bit of red and gold in the locks, more than likely brought out because of her time walking in the sun. The candlelight makes it all the more obvious, and he can’t help but wonder how it would look with pearls tucked into it. A feather, perhaps. Some pins with rubies or garnets, gold and glittering in her curls.

He’ll have to have some made, he decides.

“An arrangement will have to be drawn up," he declares.

“You will find I have little to contribute financially, I regret to inform you. But it should be quick, as I have no guardians to convince.”

“I am glad for that,” Ben says, before realizing the meaning of his words as her fork and knife still on her plate. “Forgive me, I did not mean about your lack of guardians. I take no joy in that tragedy, I merely meant that I am glad it will be quick.”

“I understand.” There’s that warmth, that laughter in her voice that he’s learning to listen for and enjoy. “And your parents?”

“I will send word to them tomorrow,” he replies. "They care for my happiness, and have been eager to see me wed. I do not worry."

She nods, and returns to her plate. The potatoes are gone, and he nods to one of the footmen to serve her more. Her eyes widen as another spoonful is added to her plate, and then she smiles. It’s sweet, and radiant, and he finds himself wondering how in the world he managed to find a woman who is pleased by some potatoes, cream, butter, and herbs.

How very lucky he is, he supposes, for there is no need to try and sway her affections with diamonds and rubies and sapphires, as he would try to sway some of the other women he’s encountered. Not all, certainly, he can think of several women who had previously been in his company who would enjoy simple things as well, but not quite so simple as mashed potatoes. And he had no interest in them, as they had no interest in him.

“If there is something you wish for, you only need ask,” he explains.

“My lord is generous,” she says, and there’s a breathiness to her voice. “In truth, I know not what to ask for. I acknowledge that what you may offer is vast, and in that I’m overwhelmed.”

“Then I shall provide and you can deny or accept, how is that arrangement?”

“A fine one, I believe,” she replies, her smile bright.

Even the fruit sprinkled with sugar and set in custard that is brought out seems bitter compared to the sweetness of her smile. No treat could compare to her grin as the glass dish is set before her.

For what she lacks in etiquette, in knowledge of his world, it is made up for by the warmth that fills his chest when he looks at her.

✥

Though he is well aware of just how improper this entire arrangement is, and the talk that will result in him not only marrying a woman of inferior birth, but caring for her and interacting with her as he has, he has no wish for even more incessant whispers. And so he sends her home in his carriage, the night dark and cool after the rain of the afternoon.

“I shall send for you in the morn, if that is agreeable.”

“That is, yes,” she says. He doesn’t like seeing her in the darkness. The darkness doesn’t highlight the cream of her skin, the tones of her hair, the warmth of her eyes. Even though a footman is holding a lantern for them to converse by, it’s not enough. “I look forward to it.”

“Ten, then,” he replies.

“Ten.”

“I look forward to it as well,” he promises.

Her dress and coat are still damp, according to one of the maids, and so she’s wrapped up in a fine cashmere shawl, once again borrowed. He’s shamelessly looking forward to seeing her in silks and lace and chiffon, and he knows he’ll have to speak to whatever seamstress they hire for her wardrobe.

She steps up into the carriage before he can offer her assistance, and it becomes quite obvious that she’s never been in one before, because he watches as her eyes dart around, her fingers coming to the curtains and gaze moving towards the ceiling. He can’t help but chuckle, and her eyes find his.

“Goodnight.”

“Yes, goodnight,” he replies.

He can hear footsteps behind him as the carriage pulls away, and he doesn’t acknowledge Hux’s presence beside him until the carriage has started down the walk, the lantern becoming smaller and smaller until it is but the size of a firefly in the distance.

“You disapprove,” Ben says.

“I do,” Hux replies. “But I will not deny her charm. I’ve never seen someone so enthralled by a simple meal.”

Ben laughs, bowing his head slightly and smiling as he recalls her delight at almost everything on the table. “I look forward to her reaction to a dinner party.”

“As am I, however overwhelmed by the concept she may be.”

“I shall invite Lady Connix, and Lady Tico.”

“An interesting decision.”

“Perhaps,” Ben admits. “But one cannot doubt their warmth and compassion.”

“No, one cannot.”

The list of things that must be accomplished is longer than he would like, admittedly. Sitting at the desk in his room as the candles burn lower, he makes note of what will need to be done in order to help her transition. And, truthfully, Hux may be right. Financially, it is an investment he will not get a return on. She has very little money to contribute, no guardians, no family to provide for her. She’s more than likely living off of savings, a meager inheritance.

But it is an investment he is willing to make, if he can see her joy of simple things the way he’s seen tonight. He can’t deny that she’s amusing, in a wonderful, warm, unique way.

He has no doubt that those he associates with will find her amusing in other ways, but he cares little for them. He can only hope that some see her charm the way he does.

God, does he hope.


	5. V.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand we're back after a lovely weekend with my family! (Different environment = difficult to write.) I'm so grateful and so amazed that people are loving this story! Thank you so very very much for all of the wonderful support! I'm a pastel pink dragon who hoards kudos and comments and then uses their cozy warmth as fuel to write more. 
> 
> Speaking of support, we have our first fanart!!!! @emchewchew on Twitter has not only blessed me with fanart, but blessed me with her FIRST FANART!! What an honor!! I squealed so hard when I saw them, and I love them so much! The colors, the softness, it's all so lovely! This is the second part: https://twitter.com/emchewchew/status/1272382063182843904?s=20 Follow the original tweet for the first! It's so lovely, thank you so much Em! (And thank you for your permission to share here!) I'm still in awe that this story is only 5 chapters and has fanart, I can't stop smiling!
> 
> Thank you all again for so much love, I've been over the moon and grinning like a dork ever since I started publishing this fic. Hope you enjoy this new chapter!

She’s grateful for the dark cover of night, because it means no one in the small village of Budrow will be peeking their heads out of their windows and doors to gaze upon whoever’s in the carriage. Even if they do look out into the darkness, they’ll see only the warm lanterns and the horses and the silhouette, instead of her inside.

The same cannot be said for tomorrow morning, but that’s what the curtains are for, she guesses.

Her little home is far enough away from the village that, if not for the lanterns hung in the front of the carriage, she would miss the shape of it entirely. “Here, please,” she calls, recognizing her front gate and all of its weeds and herbs.

The man who offers his hand to her is older, his face softer and eyes kind even in the darkness. Rey smiles, accepting his help gladly and looking upon her little cottage, the interior dark from not being present the whole day.

“Could I use your light?” she asks, gesturing to the lantern. “Just to light my lamp?”

The older man looks very confused for a moment, before he follows her gaze to her cottage, and then understands. “Yes, yes, of course.”

“Thank you. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Her little lantern is old, the hingest rusted in places and the door difficult to get open, but at the very least it means she’ll have light and a flame to use to start her fire. The moonlight and her memory help her hand to find it by the door, and she comes back to find the man has already taken the lantern down so it will be easier for her to light hers. Rey smiles, extending the wick forward so that it may light.

“I thank you, mister…?” she asks.

“Jameson,” he says, tipping his head and hat to her. “And I will be the one to retrieve you in the morn, Miss Jackson.”

“I look forward to it,” she promises, smiling and curtsying in return, her lantern now lit and bright. “I bid you goodnight, sir.”

“Goodnight, Miss Jackson.”

To hear the carriage go off, its wheels against the road and the horses’ hooves as they make their way back to the estate, is to be yanked abruptly from the dreamland that she’s been in for the past several hours.

She’s been in a daze, truly, indulging in good food and better company than she’s had in years in that of Lord Ben Solo. But once she’s standing at her front door, the lantern clutched in her hand and the breeze cool against her cheeks and the night humming and buzzing around her, the realization that that all was the _truth_ is more than she can handle.

She doesn’t even start the fire, retreating into her cottage and setting the lamp on a table before collapsing into a chair. It creaks from age and use, but doesn’t give, and she curls up into it, staring at the flame in shock.

Lord Ben Solo has chosen _her._

Out of all of the women in London, in Derbyshire, in Herefordshire, no doubt in more counties and cities than she can possibly comprehend. Out of all the women who came to see him, following the advertisement. No doubt more will come in the next few weeks, but he decided on _her._

Rey laughs. She has to, because the other option is to cry, she supposes, but it seems her emotions choose for her. Though laughter falls from her lips, her eyes fill with tears, and she has to press her face into her hands in hopes of quelling the tears.

Surely this must be a joke? Surely he’s treating her like some sort of toy, a doll to dress up and show off. She can’t really have been chosen. No, this is … this is for fun, she’s almost sure of it.

Almost.

It seems to … cruel, for a man who had looked at her in such a way. Eyes wide and sweet. But she has met a few good actors in her time, so she supposes it’s entirely possible…

Her heart aches and flips and twists in her chest, stomach full and legs sore once more, though not nearly as sore as they would have been if she had not taken the carriage. Her thighs and calves protest as she stands to undress, to carefully lay the petticoat, the dress, the shift that are not hers over the back of one of her chairs. She should light a fire, yes, she thinks as she shivers in the cold night air before reaching for a woolen nightgown, but…

But there’s something about the darkness that is comforting. There’s a fear, she supposes, that if she lights the fire, does something normal and routine, that it all will disappear. It’s ridiculous, perhaps, but the fear lingers as she curls back up into the chair, bringing her knees up underneath the large nightgown she bought and mended from Mrs. Taylor one winter. The wool covers her bare toes, giving her just a bit of comfort and warmth as she stares at the flame.

It must be a joke, she decides, after staring at the flame for a half hour, perhaps even more.

It has to be.

There’s no reason for her to have been chosen, none at all.

✥

The carriage comes, as promised, at 10 in the morning.

She’s taken the borrowed shift, petticoat, and dress, and washed them. They’re not entirely dry, even though she woke up before dawn and used the cool blue light of the early morn to wash and hang them. But they’re dry enough by 10, having hung out in the warm morning air.

She folded them as best she could, tucked into a basket with an arrangement of some flowers and herbs on top to give to the maids who let her borrow their things. The maid who helped her was a dear thing, darker hair than Rey and darker skin. It was difficult to tell whether it came from heritage or her time doing her chores in the sun, but she was beautiful, and very, very sweet to have lent Rey such pretty things.

It had been cool when Rey woke up, so she’s dressed now in a thicker petticoat and longer dress, with sleeves that go down to her wrists. The bodice crosses over for a bit of decoration, but for the most part the dress is plain. Made from spare drapes a woman in town discarded, it’s cream with stripes and lines of embroidered flowers between them, all in darker brown thread. Is it the prettiest dress she owns? No, but it’s warm and it’s decent, at the very least.

“Good morning, Jameson,” she calls, recognizing the older man from the night before as he pulls the carriage up to her home.

“Good morning, Miss Jackson! How are you this fine morning?” he calls back, before hopping down from the seat. It was difficult to tell in the dark, but now she can see that the carriage itself is a rich, royal blue with a fine black top, flourishes and lines and filigree painted on it in black paint. A very fine carriage indeed.

She’s incredibly grateful it has curtains.

“Let me help, miss,” Jameson says, offering his hand so that she may step in properly. She smiles at him, before pulling a sweet roll from her basket and offering it to him.

“I know not whether you’ve already eaten, but I thought you may enjoy it?” she says, almost hesitantly.

She gets a bemused and confused look from the older gentleman, before his eyes find the sweet roll once more and the lovely shine the sugar glaze has given it in the morning light. Immediately his lips part into an almost childlike grin, and he tips his hat to her.

“Thank you very much, Miss Jackson,” he says, taking the sweet roll from her. She smiles in return, and thinks that if she were to take a bite, even with all the sugar and honey, its taste would still be bitter compared to the old man’s smile, soft wrinkles and lines and aging teeth and all.

She pulls the curtains closed as soon as they pull off, hoping beyond hope that those in the village will not make the connection between her absence and the carriage that goes past the shops. Perhaps they’ll think she went walking, looking for wildflowers to steep or herbs to dry and sell.

One can only hope.

✥

He’s not there to greet her, but Hux is.

“Tea is almost ready,” the man explains as she steps up to the house. “What is that?”

Rey looks down at his gaze, seeing that he’s looking at the basket. “I’ve brought some flowers and herbs for the maids who helped clean and dress me last night. I’ve also brought the clothing they let me borrow, laundered and almost dry. Could I give it to them?”

“Dopheld,” Hux calls. The other man steps forward to take the basket from her with a bow. Rey curtsies in response.

“Please tell them of my gratitude,” she begs. “The flowers are for whoever wishes for them, as are the herbs. I believe the clothing belonged to a Miss Kate.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them,” Dopheld promises before he moves to a side door and disappears through it. It closes behind him, and Rey blinks. The door looks very much like a panel of decoration, blending right into the dark wood of the wall, and she has to focus in order to see the thin lines where the door is.

“I hope you like almonds. Our cook has made an almond cream cake.”

“I confess there is not much I do not like,” Rey replies, her hands clasped in front of her as they walk through the foyer and then turn down the hall to continue the same way they went the first day she came. No doubt they’re going to the same drawing room. The one he uses to receive visitors, she supposes.

The same one all the rest of the girls he met would have been taken to.

_Why didn’t he pick one of them? Surely at least one, more than likely more than one, was agreeable._

Entering, she sees that tea has already been presented, with more cakes and some fresh fruit and cheeses. Hux pours her a cup, but she doesn’t sit down yet, holding her crocheted olive green shawl closer around her and once again looking at everything in the room.

“He will enter shortly.”

“Thank you,” she says, looking to him and nodding before he’s turning to leave. There are still two footmen in the room, one at each entrance. She supposes to open the door once Lord Solo arrives. That, and to keep an eye on her.

There’s a clock on the grand and glorious marble mantle of the fireplace that escaped her attention the first time she was in this room. Perhaps the length of her shoulder to her wrist tall, and her forearm wide, she approaches it, captured not by the beautifully intricate golden hands, though those are lovely too. The timepiece is on the bottom of the clock, while there is a small painting over it. It’s the painting that Rey’s drawn towards, and she steps forward and goes up on her tiptoes, the soft and worn leather of her boots bending as she does so.

It’s a gorgeous little painting of a woman sitting beneath a tree. Her yellow embroidered skirt is out in front of her, much more full and lavish than anything Rey’s seen in recent years. An older painting, or at least done in a much older style of a world long gone. Somehow the artist made her hair look like a shiny chestnut despite the small size of the woman’s head. He must have been painting with a brush with only one hair, Rey deduces, to get the depth of shades in the woman’s curls. Each strand is seemingly a different shade of brown, making it seem as though Rey could reach out and twirl a delicate tendril around her finger.

Each emerald leaf of the tree the woman’s braced against is painted with similar detail, every stitch of the embroidery on the woman’s gown. The book is so small that it’s difficult to read, but Rey can make out some words. Either whoever commissioned the piece wanted an absurd amount of detail and was willing to pay the price, or the artist was just that meticulous. Rey’s almost convinced the waves on the lake in the background are moving.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?”

Her heart leaps into her throat, and she turns, looking over her shoulder to see that Lord Solo has arrived. She stares at him, her hands still braced on the fireplace for support and her feet still halfway on the hardwood as she takes in his dark, soft-looking waves, the navy jacket, the deep brown pants. He really is a handsome man, even though he may not regard himself as such.

“It is, yes,” Rey replies, looking back to the painting. “There’s so much detail…”

“The woman is my grandmother.” A pause. “Was my grandmother. She died a few winters ago.”

“You are lucky you got to know her so long as you did, then,” she says, turning to offer him a weak smile and a curtsy. “Forgive me, I didn’t know you’d come in.”

“No, no, forgive me for startling you,” he begs.

Rey’s weak smile returns, and she bows her head a little, her heart hammering in her chest as tears suddenly flood her eyes.

“Would you like—”

“Sir, if this is a trick, I beg of you to end your search of humor and instead let me go.”

She’d heard his footsteps on the floor, but they stop abruptly, and she can just see his shoes and the hem of his trousers as he stops before her.

He doesn’t respond for a moment, and she swallows, blinking and trying desperately not to let her tears fall.

“A trick?” he asks.

Rey looks up at him, hoping that he is not so smart a man to notice her tears. “I came to this house, sir, with the advertisement, knowing full well that the chances of being chosen were slimmer than a strand of hair. I walked through these halls and knew I did not belong in such a place. And yet you defied society’s expectations and rules, sending me a letter, and including words of an offer. And I came here last night and you confirmed that you wish to offer me your hand in marriage. Lord Solo, forgive me, but I have to wonder what could have possibly, in any way, convinced you that I am a decent match to a man of your degree of gentility and fortune. I have no doubt that you could have any eligible woman in England, and yet you have decided you’d much prefer to wed a woman with no family, no inheritance, no allowance, no fortune of her own and no material to her name save what has already been owned by someone else or bartered for with the most meager amount of coin you could possibly comprehend.”

She’s breathless, and he’s staring at her with wide eyes. He says nothing, and so she decides to continue, despite her chest aching, her lungs weary and heart hurting with the _impossibility_ and _ridiculousness_ of it all.

“You can’t possibly want to be wed to me, sir,” she insists, her voice strained. “It’s … it’s illogical, it’s _impossible,_ you could have a woman with beauty and fortune and talent and knowledge and instead you choose _me?_ Forgive me, sir, if I am uncertain, and forgive me for wondering if something unsavory is afoot. But the odds are against me in every single conceivable way, and yet…”

“And yet you have charmed me.”

Rey blinks back tears as Lord Solo takes another step towards her, but three feet from her now.

“If I cared for gentility or fortune, I would not have put an advertisement in a paper that I knew would be delivered to women who have neither,” he explains. “Forgive me, but I am confused as well. You came here insisting that you were eligible, and indeed you are. I asked for a woman who cares little for looks and coin, and who has good teeth. You not only possess those qualities, but you have enlightened me to a point of view that I do not often look through, and I wish to see more of. You look upon wealth and see its beauty instead of asking for more. You take pleasure in simple things, as proven by your meal last night, and my conversations with you have been five, if not ten times more interesting than those I have had with other women with far more fortune.”

With every word he says, his tone becomes harder. It is not cruel, it is not cold, but it is hard. A hammer into a nail, as though to make her hear his words, make her _understand._ And she hears what he’s saying, she is, but it still seems so damn _impossible_.

“I have given you my explanation for why I have not chosen a wife of fortune or gentility,” Lord Solo explains. “And I have just given you my explanation for why I have chosen the complete opposite. I will readily admit that there is work to be done, so that your transition may be smooth. I have already set aside funds for a wardrobe, accessories, tutors. If you have no wish for any of those, I beg of you to speak now. I will still wish to wed you, for you are the only companion I could consider spending a significant amount of time with today, tomorrow, and every day thereafter.”

Rey can only stare at him, blinking, tears finally falling as he takes yet another step closer.

“If you have no wish to wed me, then say so now.”

“No,” she breathes, before she realizes that her answer could have gone either way. “I … I do wish to wed you. I arrived that first day wondering what it would be like to be taken care of, for I do not know. To live in a house with a fine roof, to walk through gardens that aren’t weeds and wild herbs, to eat food that isn’t stale or bitter…” She has to laugh at her own pathetic nature, and she reaches up to wipe her tears away. Almost immediately, a fine linen handkerchief is pressed into her hands, a B embroidered in navy blue on the white fabric. “Thank you…”

“Yes, of course,” he mutters, awkward as ever. “I still have wish to wed you, if you will have me.”

“I ask for your forgiveness, if I frequently wonder why you wish to have me,” Rey replies, laughing a little at her own expense, dabbing her eyes and cheeks with the finest handkerchief she’s ever felt, even finer than those at Ford’s, the ones she could feel but never afford. “But … I daresay I wish to have you, as well.”

“May I write to my mother, then?” he asks. “I have no wish to get her hopes up about a wedding if there isn’t to be one.”

“Yes,” Rey replies, laughing again. “Yes, sir, write to your mother.”

“After tea.”

“After tea,” she agrees as he ushers her towards the settee. “Though I am unsure of the rest of … everything your degree has to offer, I cannot deny my delight with being fed so wonderfully.”

Lord Solo smiles. It’s slight, closed-lipped, but his gaze is warm as he adds sugar to her tea. It suddenly strikes her that he remembered how she takes hers.

Perhaps… perhaps there is something, after all, despite logic and sense and everything a man of his degree and education should have.

It still seems so dreamlike, so absurd as she sips the rose tea and reaches for an almond honey cream cake.

But it is the truth, she supposes.

As ridiculous as it may seem for someone like _her_ to wed someone like _him._


	6. VI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be forever in awe and happiness about the response this fic has gotten! <3 Words can't express how warm it makes me and how smiley I am because of it. Thank you all so much for the lovely support! 
> 
> Yes, this fic moves a little slowly. Yes, I am very much indulging in just writing them talking because they're just so fun to write!! But we will be moving soon, I promise! And meeting some familiar characters I'm very, very excited about! 
> 
> Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy!

There are things to be considered, of course.

Many, many things to be considered.

“I will hire tutors.”

She indulges in a rich black tea, more flavorful and delicious than the weak blend she sometimes splurges on. As she sips, the lord speaks.

“When I write to my mother, I will inquire as to any jewelry she will be willing to part with,” he explains, stirring his tea but not sipping it, yet. Something to do with his hands, she thinks, taking another sip from her cup. In times of unease and unrest, she finds that it is her lips that need occupying, by biting or resting her thumb against the bottom. It seems his restlessness is in his hands, his large fingers making the delicate silver spoon seem even smaller than it already is.

“I have no need for grand gems,” she replies.

“No, but it will be expected of you to wear such things,” Lord Solo says. “I will also be hiring someone to take your measurements and craft a wardrobe. You will need gowns for balls and dinner parties, as well as appropriate outerwear. That fits.”

Yes, she’s aware her coat is large in the shoulders and chest. It’s not truly her coat, instead an old coat of Mrs. Bangley’s daughter, who’s much broader and much fuller in the chest than she is. Still, Rey flushes, looking down at the golden tea in her cup and taking another sip.

“You will not go wanting for anything.”

Rey pauses, the porcelain braced against her lower lip but no tea slipping past her lips just yet. She looks up to the lord over the lip of the cup, before she pulls it away with a gentle, shy smile. “In truth, my lord,” she starts. “If you give me a warm bed and a roof over my head and food to eat, that’s all I would truly want. I have no specific wish for silken gowns and shining jewels, though I will not refuse them, especially if to wear them will make my integration easier and prevent ridicule.”

“Aye, it will keep people from talking ill,” he admits.

“I care not if people talk ill,” she replies simply. “Of me, at least. You chose me. For reasons you have explained to me and yet I still cannot comprehend in this moment, you have chosen me.”

“Yes, I have,” he says, and there’s a warmth to his voice that makes her smile as she takes another sip. It’s so different, so much richer and so much sweeter, and she realizes quite quickly that this is to be the rest of her life. Days of experiencing differences.

“After tea, I would like to show you your room,” Lord Solo explains. “I would like to have you stay with me.”

Different, indeed.

Rey almost chokes, tea splashing over onto her hand, but not onto her dress, thankfully. Immediately there’s a handkerchief offered, and she declines him with a “No, no, thank you,” before raising her hand to her lips to both get the spilled drops of tea and soothe her hand. It didn’t burn her badly, no, it’s cooled down, but it was still a surprise. “Stay with you?” she asks. “Is that not—”

“Improper? Yes, and I am willing to guess that many will speak of it,” he explains. “But I should like to see you every day, and it’s ridiculous to have you walk so far or send for my carriage. I will not ask for you to stay before we are announced to be man and wife, but as soon as our engagement is made public, I see no reason for you not to stay with me. It would make things significantly easier, and, forgive me, but I do not trust my mother’s jewels to leave these walls so blatantly.”

“No, no, of course not,” Rey breathes. “Though they would be safe with me, sir, from the outside there is nothing of value to be found in my current home.”

“My driver said as much,” he replies. “Which is why I would like you to stay here, if such an idea is agreeable. You will no longer have to light your own fires, or sit in darkness.”

“Lighting a fire is hardly a difficult task,” she teases before taking another sip.

No more lighting her own fires. No more sitting in dark chill if it goes out in the night. No more picking herbs in her front garden and hoping for a few coin in exchange for them.

But … also no more seeing Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. No more seeing Mrs. Marston at the bakery. Though there are not so many she is attached to in the village, the thought of never seeing them again…

“Could I visit?” she asks quietly. “Occasionally? There are a handful in the village I see sometimes, and I would like to think they care about my wellbeing enough that a visit from me every so often would brighten their spirits.”

“Yes, of course,” he promises. “You shall take my carriage any day you wish.”

“You know quite well I am capable of walking,” she teases.

“Whatever so pleases the future Mrs. Solo,” he says, and she watches as the edges of his lips turn up into a tender smile.

She can’t help but smile as well, though her heartbeat is rapid and nervous behind her breast, and she still cannot quite comprehend the circumstances.

✥

“My mother’s name is Lady Leia Organa.”

“Not Solo?” Rey asks as they walk through the halls once more. She tries desperately to remember which turns they’ve taken, which ways the’ve gone, where the sun is through the windows, but it’s useless. She will simply have to rely on the footmen, or a maid, or her husband, she decides.

 _Her husband_.

“Solo is my father’s name. I took it when I was of age,” Lord Solo explains. “He was of inferior birth, though not quite so inferior as yours. He was the captain of a ship called the Falcon, and was contracted by many shipping companies. After several years out to sea, he met my mother when her ship could not continue it’s voyage, and so she traveled on his.” His smile is slight. “I am told by my uncle that the waves were rough, but the start to their affair was rougher.”

“An uncle?”

“Sir Luke Skywalker. He is a scholar, now. He teaches impressionable young minds about history.”

His tone is different. There’s a sadness to it, almost wistful, and Rey frowns. “You speak of him with such sadness.”

“I haven’t seen him in years,” Lord Solo explains. “I was once one of his students, before I decided that the way of the scholars was not the path I would take. There are things I regret, in regards to our relationship.”

“Perhaps you will amend them?”

He looks to her. The day is dreary, the clouds thin but covering the sun and making everything a drab sort of grey. Still, the light catches the waves of his hair and their smooth, sleek shine, and again she finds herself oblivious and baffled by the notion that this man would think himself unattractive.

“Perhaps,” he agrees, after a moment. “I will be writing to him, at any rate, about our union. If I don’t, my mother will, and then it will become a question of why I did not write to him in the first place.”

“Your family is close, then,” she says.

“In a way.” His dark eyes soften slightly. “I do believe my mother will enjoy you.”

“I hope so,” she admits. “I have to wonder if I will be enjoyable to those you associate with, but I will do my best to be. I sincerely hope that the gowns and jewels will help ease their judgement, but I am also well aware of the fact that putting peacock feathers on a pigeon does not make the pigeon a peacock. It merely makes it a fancy-looking pigeon.”

She likes the sound of his laugh. It’s short, and soft, not the hearty guffaws she hears at the few holiday parties she’s invited to after the men have a few more sips of wine than they should. It’s not the wheezing, squeaky laugh of Thompson, one of the butcher’s sons. It’s nice to listen to, and she’s looking forward to hearing it more.

“Aye, but pigeons and doves are related,” he replies. “I would much prefer to wed a peaceful, beautiful dove than a parading peacock.”

_Beautiful._

He called her beautiful. Not so directly, perhaps, but he did. And she smiles, flushing as they continue their walk through the house.

Everything is decorated. She’s been in a handful of nice houses before. Or, at the very least, nicer than hers. But for a moment, to indulge in some tea or to carry the basket of herbs into the kitchen. She’s seen fine paintings with their gilded frames, she’s seen walls painted fine colors with wooden trim and shapes pressed to them for interest. She’s seen curtains with lace and frills. She may not have them in her own home, but she’s familiar with them, at the very least.

This… this is far more.

Everything, from the patterns on the ceiling to the soft, lush rugs beneath her boots. Everything is decorated and lavish beyond her wildest dreams. She’s never seen so much gold in her life, even when a Mrs. Bunting came barreling through the village in search of mint tea to help her stomach as she rode to some other lord’s manor to the east. She was in Mr. Taylor’s shop but for a moment, but Rey recalls her spencer, her pins, her broaches, her earrings, even her hat was trimmed with gold ribbons and ruffles. If there was anyone who ever fit the definition of ‘over-trimmed’, it was the brief but dramatic Mrs. Bunting.

This house has just as many trims and trinkets, but it’s the space, she supposes. She’s not bothered by the decoration so much as she is in awe of it. It’s absurd, yes, and unnecessary. Not every door needs to have gold paint on it, not every inch needs to be painted or gilded or decorated. But it’s … warm. For all of it’s frills, everything has its purpose, it seems. Her eyes land on beautiful marble busts, detailed and delicate portraits and landscapes and still-lifes. It’s overwhelming, yes, but not in an ill way. In that she wishes to look and admire everything.

Before, during her first time here, she thought she’d never see such beauty again. And so she lingered, probably to her future husband’s mild annoyance, in order to see as much as possible before she was never to return.

And to think. She’ll be living here before too long, she’ll be able to wander the house as she pleases, be able to see everything, spend time with everything, see every detail and feel every cool, marble curve and sit on every lavish cushion…

“May I ask what you are thinking?”

She startles a bit, blinking and looking up at her husband-to-be. What a strange concept that is… “I’m thinking of all the beautiful things you have,” she admits. “And how, when I first visited, I was convinced I would never lay my eyes on such beautiful things again. And how I lingered so that I may see them for as long as possible. I’m sure I was a bother to you in my reluctance to move quickly, and I ask for your forgiveness.”

“On the contrary, I found it charming,” Lord Solo explains. “And I appreciate that you enjoy the beauty of such things as much as I do.”

Rey smiles, taking two strides to catch up to him. “You asked me, the first day, whether I could play or paint or read.”

“Indeed I did.”

“Will any of the tutors teach me such things?”

“I will hire a reading tutor, yes,” he replies. “Can you read at all?”

“I can. I was honest when I said I read poorly. I have a few novels to call my own, but ultimately my coins go towards more essential things. Those I have read, though, are almost falling apart, and I could recite passages from memory if prompted,” she explains. “It’s not so much a lack of desire to read as it is that I don’t have much material.”

“We have a library,” he replies. “It is yours to indulge in as you wish.”

“I would be grateful.”

“Do you have wish to play or paint?”

“Not particularly,” she muses, noticing that they are walking more slowly. He is letting her observe, letting her gaze drift and fall on what is soon to be part of her life. Her laced hands squeeze together just a bit tighter, her heart skipping a beat at the idea. “I sing, but only occasionally, and hardly ever with an audience or accompaniment. I will not say I sing poorly nor well, because I truly have no idea.”

“Then I shall accompany you, if you so wish, and give my honest opinion?”

“Your honest opinion, sir?” Rey asks, laughter in her voice. “Have you no means to soften my feelings if I sing like a strangled kit?”

“I could soften your feelings,” Lord Solo admits, his own smile slight but warm. “And I would gladly, if I thought you were the sort of woman who needed your feelings softened. But you came into my drawing room and demanded a specific reasoning for my marrying you, and insisted for the truth. I would like to think, Miss Jackson, that you are a woman who does not tolerate insults, but accepts criticism.”

“I have hardly been criticized, at least not so blatantly and openly,” she confesses. “For no one cares enough about my presence to do so, be it in cruelty or in hopes of being helpful. But I sincerely hope, sir, that you would not lie to ease the bruise of honesty. As I was honest with you in my lack of talent, I would hope you would be honest if I well and truly have none.”

He chuckles, nodding in agreement. “When you sing, I promise to be honest. And I promise I shall not call you to do so if doing so would embarrass you in company.”

“Thank you,” she says, nodding as well as they move up a staircase towards the back of the house. It’s not so grand as the first, but it is still grand, and she looks up at paintings of people whose features she can see in his own face. “Family portraits.”

“Aye, some of them,” he explains, stopping just a handful of steps ahead of her as she remains on the landing. He gestures to a portrait of a couple. “My parents.”

“She is quite beautiful, and he quite handsome,” she says.

It’s completely and entirely honest. Though the couple in the painting look as young as she and the lord, and no doubt age has affected them since, they are lovely. She looks every bit a lady, dark blues and silvers, dignified with a large silver necklace against her pale skin. Her hair is long and curled, the dress of a design that Rey hasn’t seen in person, the skirt fuller and waist lower and more structured. The detail of the lace and the curls of her hair, the dimension the same as the woman on the clock. It’s not the same artist, though. These details are not quite so sharp. There’s a warmth and softness to her that makes Rey smile, and eases her terrified heart of meeting her, if only slightly.

The man is incredibly handsome, his nose prominent like his son’s, lips full and jaw strong. There’s a boyishness to him, despite the grey at his temples, and a similar but different warmth. She lingers, hearing her husband-to-be’s footsteps as he returns to her side. She can feel his presence behind her, and hums.

“I would have liked to have met your parents,” he says gently. “You truly have no family?”

“Not that I am aware of,” she says. “If I did, I like to think they would have claimed me. But no one has stepped forward. My inheritance was meager, and I’ve been dwindling the past few years. But it seems as though my luck has changed.”

She turns, looking up to him, finding him much closer than she’d expected. Immediately he steps back, and she finds she misses the closeness, though to stand so close is improper, she knows. She has no chaperone, no family to give a damn, frankly, about whether or not she is proper. No one to care for her innocence and reputation, what little of it remains. But still, there are footmen about, watching them, and she looks back to the portrait.

“I look forward to meeting them,” she says.

“I have no doubt they will enjoy your company,” he replies. “My mother has been eager for me to wed for years, now. I’m just as eager to send word that I have found the woman I wish to spend the rest of my life with.”

Her smile is nervous, but she cannot deny that there is excitement with the nerves as she carefully walks up the stairs to where she can only assume the bedrooms are. “Forgive me,” she begs. “If I lose myself in fear or nervousness.”

“I would think you mad if you did not have such emotions,” Lord Solo replies, before he’s reaching for her hand. He does not pull her close. He does not bring it to his lips to kiss. Instead, he merely holds her fingers, and she feels as though she may swallow her heart as they stand in the hallway.

There are callouses on his skin, no doubt from writing or riding or whatever a lord does in his spare time. She stares up at him, letting her bare hand be held gently as he looks down into her eyes.

“I am uncertain as well,” he promises. “I am nervous. Not of my decision, but of what may become from it. But I promise you that I shall do whatever I can to ease your own feelings.”

“I thank you,” she whispers, her throat feeling too tight and heartbeat too loud between her temples to have her speak much louder. “The distraction of seeing my room would be a welcome start, I think?”

“Yes, of course.”

He lets her hand go, and she misses the comfort it brought immediately.

And, silently, slightly, scolds herself for feeling so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, please let me know with a comment or a kudo! Comments are like a warm cup of tea for me. Soft, sweet, and keeping me going even when I should be asleep!


	7. VII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, lovely people! Thank you for your love, support, and patience! I've had a nice few days of just not thinking, and it's been lovely, if I'm honest. I'm so very happy you all enjoyed the last chapter, and I'm looking forward to this one! 
> 
> As a PSA, I keep these chapters shorter so that I can get them published quicker, rather than sitting on several thousand words. If I keep them this length, they're easy to bust out and keep those emails coming to your inboxes quickly!
> 
> Thank you all for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

It doesn’t take long for word to spread.

After all, her cottage is on the outskirts of town, but it’s still in town. It takes mere hours to pack up everything she wishes to take with her, and for preparations to be made in regards to furniture, and the house itself.

“Are you well, Miss Jackson?”

Jameson’s voice is low, a little rough, a little out of breath from carrying her things, meager though they may have been.

Rey lingers in the front doorway, hand braced on the cool stone as the late morning sun starts to warm her shoulders through her dress. It’s so strange, to look into her home and see it so empty. The furniture will either be demolished or repurposed, most of it already taken by a cart to a woodworker’s shop another town over. All of what made the small cottage hers has been removed, and without all of the warmth, it’s become blatantly clear just how she lived. There are holes in the stone that she hadn’t noticed, letting winter’s icy fingers through. There are some cracks in the windows she didn’t notice because of the curtains she’d made herself. The roof is stable, yes, but she can see spots of moisture in the wood above where ice and snow had managed to leak through.

With the removal of her things, of what made it warm, of what made it _hers_ … what was once a home is now a hovel.

Rey turns to Jameson, nodding. “Yes, I’m quite all right. Thank you.”

He gives her hand a small squeeze as he helps her into the carriage.

Between the emptying of her cottage and seeing the carriage move through town, she’s not surprised when she receives a letter from the Taylors, expressing their excitement and obviously edging for an invitation to such a grand home. Rey can’t help but smile as she reads it, before wondering if she needs to ask permission for them to visit.

After all, she’s to be Mrs. Solo. No, Lady Solo.

Her reaction to such a fact changes by the hour. No, by the minute, almost. There is the giddiness, the disbelief. The feeling as though she is lighter than air, walking through the halls, her eyes lingering on every bit of art and decoration. Who would have thought? Certainly not her, and certainly not anyone she’s acquaintances with. And to think of the reactions of those Lord Solo associates himself with…

The sickly, spinning sensation starts to set in.

There is no question that they will disapprove of her. It’s almost entirely certain that they will shun her, ridicule her, examine her every detail and declare many of them flaws. It’s exactly why there has been a seamstress the past few days, taking her measurements and showing the options to Lord Solo, and then to her. Rey’s watched them over fabric and lace samples, the lord muttering under his breath. Things that Rey thought were luxurious and in fashion are apparently no longer, as she sees him set aside a piece of silk very much like one that she saw Mrs. Brighten fawning over just a few months ago.

There is a strategy, it seems, to making her acceptable to those he associates with. She dare not call them friends, for he doesn’t call them friends. He’s only spoken of his mother, so far, and that he has sent word to her and invited her to stay for a week so that she may meet his bride.

The paperwork will be simple, he promises. After all, she has no assets, barely an inheritance. The house she was staying in was not her own in title, merely in shallow possession and no one cared to remove her from it.

It all seems so simple when he says things.

She could listen to his voice all day, and indeed she does, as he walks her through what will occur. He is to have a dinner party whenever her first gown is finished, which should be soon, as its simple in design and construction but lavish in materials. He will be inviting a Lady Kaydel Connix, and Lady Rose Tico. She has to wonder why he didn’t marry either of them.

When she voices her question, he blinks, before explaining, “I enjoy their company, I will not deny that. But I could not imagine spending the rest of my days with them. They are kind souls, and clever, but they did not tempt me.”

Which means _she_ tempted him.

The thought makes her flush, and she quickly reaches for her wine, her gaze finding her dinner as he continues to speak of the party.

Two men, a Lord Finn Cavalier, an émigrés from France, and Mr. Poe Dameron. Though Mr. Dameron does not hold a title, Lord Solo had explained, he holds many assets and is well loved in many social circles.

“Perhaps too well-loved,” Lord Solo mutters under his breath. “He … seeks attention often. And is inclined to give it, as well.”

“I see,” Rey had said, familiar with such a type.

“In regards to everyone,” Lord Solo says, lowly and slowly so that she understands his meaning.

And she does.

“Ah, I see,” she says, cheeks still flushed.

“I thought I ought to warn you.”

“I would not consider it a warning, sir,” she replies honestly. “When the world is often so cruel and so hard, I refuse to be someone who judges someone who loves so eagerly and openly. If Mr. Dameron is happy, then who am I to deny him such or cast judgement? Especially if he receives love in return, and makes those he loves happy.”

The smile he gives her is small but soft, and she gives her own in return before returning to the delicious meal.

✥

“Almost finished, my lady.”

“I’m not a lady yet,” Rey insists quietly as she feels the older woman’s fingers tuck and pin pleats along her chest. It’s a beautiful piece, she’ll admit. The neckline forms a wide V, two pleated bits of fabric crossing over each other to create the bodice. It’s a delicate matter, though, and they need to lay right, and so Mrs. Kanata takes her time making sure they lay perfectly against her chest.

“No, but you’ll need to get used to hearing it,” the seamstress says as she slips another pin into the wine-colored silk.

The first time Rey met the woman was about a week ago, standing in the middle of the foyer with a large hat and an even larger bag. Lord Solo spoke to her fondly, kissing her small, wrinkled hands and welcoming her to his home.

“Yes, I’ve seen it,” Mrs. Kanata had said. “Where is she?”

The woman has a fire that Rey’s only seen a few times before, and it warms her and soothes her fears as Mrs. Kanata had insisted she have choices regarding her own wardrobe instead of letting fashion and fanciful trimmings overwhelm her.

“There are always jewels and gloves and ribbons and hairpieces,” Mrs. Kanata had explained, showing her some sketches of gowns she’s made before. “I say start simple.”

And it is simple, this gown. All one color, with opportunity for different lace colors of different petticoats to peek up from the bodice.

“Black,” Mrs. Kanata had suggested. “Just a bit of black, with some garnets.”

Lord Solo had nodded while Rey felt like the world was spinning. Garnets. She’s to be given garnets.

“Almost finished,” Mrs. Kanata reassures. “And then you may go about your day, my lady.”

“My day is of no significance anymore,” Rey replies, looking down at the small, older woman from her higher spot on a little painted stool. “I wander aimlessly and listen to my husband-to-be rattle off what I will need to learn in order to be his wife. I will admit, I didn’t think so much of all of this. I only thought of a roof over my head and a warm bed and someone who would hopefully be good company.”

“And yet here you are, dressed in silks,” Mrs. Kanata says. Her words are a little hard to distinguish thanks to the pins between her lips, her skin golden and showing it’s age, but beautiful all the same. “You will do fine. Look ahead, and then look forward to what’s ahead.”

“I’m terrified.”

“I would be concerned if you weren’t. But your face and words are a significant change from the women I typically make gowns for. Take that as a compliment, my lady.”

Rey smiles at that, feeling Mrs. Kanata’s hands helping to guide the gown back off of her.

“I’ll let the lord know that it will be finished within the next two days. And then he can have his dinner party he’s so excited for.”

“The one I am loathing?” Rey asks, reaching for her white petticoat, the lace against her chest finer and softer than any lace she’s felt before. It was one of the first things her husband-to-be bought for her, something fine and sweet and soft to make her dresses look a little more her stature. Or, rather, what will be her stature.

“Your company will be pleasant, and eager to meet you, my lady,” Mrs. Kanata explains. Her hands move with a quickness that only comes from experience, and Rey stands for a moment in her petticoat, watching the old woman move. “I’ve met all of them. They’re good people. It’s those at bigger, more formal events you will have to be wary of. Thankfully, they respect care and craft. And I am the best at both.”

Rey laughs. She’s laughing more, these days. Often times it’s a nervous laughter, if she’s entirely honest, but she also laughs with Lord Solo. Though her old company was pleasant enough, in the form of the shopkeepers in town and their respective families, she wouldn’t go so far as to say she laughed with them often. Now, Lord Solo will say something in that low, dry tone of his, and she finds herself chuckling over chestnut soup.

It’s pleasant.

✥

Her rooms far exceeded her expectations.

After all, her expectations from the very beginning were incredibly low. As she’d said to Mrs. Kanata, they were a roof over her head, and a warm bed.

A warm bed she certainly receives. There are more down feathers than she suspects she’s seen in her entire life, on all of the birds she’s ever seen combined. Everything is soft, and doesn’t poke her, unlike the hay she sometimes stuffed hers with back in the cottage when it became lumpy and thin. The bed itself is beautiful, a dark mahogany, gleaming in the candlelight with so many flourishes and patterns carved into it, she could spend hours tracing them.

And indeed she does, when she’s feeling overwhelmed, when the silence of the night results in her hearing her own thoughts more. When she can’t help but listen, and become convinced of their truth.

The same carvings are on the wardrobe, the dresser, the tables by her bedside, the small desk. She has a dressing room where her gowns and accessories and jewels - jewels! - will be kept. And a small sitting room, far smaller than the one she first met the lord in, but it’s still a room of her own, for her own amusement and sitting and reading and sewing and whatever it is she wants to do.

She’s sitting there one day when he surprises her.

“So you do have a talent.”

Rey startles, pricking her finger with the embroidery needle. She bites her tongue to keep from cursing, instead lifting her finger to her lips and tasting the iron of her own blood as she looks up at the lord. He looks apologetic, and rightfully so, and she notices he has his hands behind his back.

“Forgive me,” he begs. “It was not my intention to startle you.”

“You’re forgiven, of course, my lord,” she replies, pulling her finger from her mouth and pressing upon the skin, satisfied when a bead of blood doesn’t appear. She picks up her embroidery, examining it and hoping she didn’t leave a stain anywhere. “It’s not something I did often, as there were other more productive things to do, but sometimes I indulged.”

“It’s lovely,” Lord Solo says. He leans over, looking at the small flowers on the muslin. “Though I will admit I am a poor judge.”

“I think you a very good judge,” Rey replies, frowning. “What are you holding, sir?”

“Oh.” He blushes a little bit, pale cheeks turning a slightly darker shade of pink, and he offers her a single rose. “I was informed that I should do this.”

“That you should give me flowers?” she asks. Her voice is light and teasing, and she’s rewarded with his cheeks flushing a bit darker as she reaches up to take the pink rose. It’s truly lovely, the petals different shades of pink, some lighter, some darker, some both. It smells delightful as well, and she buries her nose in the silky petals, breathing deeply.

“I’m unused to the expectations of courting,” he replies, a little too lowly and a little too quickly to be considered casual or proper, and when she looks up, he’s looking sideways. Not ignoring her. Avoiding her. He’s embarrassed. “If there is something I am lacking, or something I am not doing that you wish for me to do, I ask that you tell me. I have seen men and their wives where they do not speak to each other, and it is a miserable sight indeed. I have no wish for us to become man and wife like that.”

“You speak as though I have any knowledge of courting myself,” Rey says quietly. “I didn’t consider such a thing a possibility several weeks ago. My lack of assets and inheritance don’t make me a fine candidate, even for a butcher’s son, and so I’m as well versed in what it is to be courted well as you are.”

“That is to say, not at all?”

“Not at all, sir.”

“What an odd couple we make.”

“You reason that our combined lack of knowledge regarding courtship is the sole reason we are an odd couple?” Rey asks, her laughter sneaking in between her words. Her lips part into a smile, because she can’t help it. Such a notion’s truly ridiculous, and he knows it, too, as his lips part as well.

She’s seen his teeth before, when he spoke, but not when he smiled. They’re crooked, but in a way that’s charming. She gets only a glimpse of them, and the way his eyes narrow and crinkle, betraying his age. They haven’t spoken of details like that, though she supposes they should.

They should speak about a lot of things that men and women in a romantic involvement no doubt discuss before deciding to leap into an engagement, but then again, they are not the typical pair of man and woman. Lord and peasant. High and low. Confident and absolutely paralyzed with fear and anxiety.

Yes, the best pair there is, Rey thinks dryly, looking back down at the rose in her hands.

“I should think there to be a ball during her time here. I would like to make our engagement public then.”

“Whatever you think is suitable,” Rey replies, her fingers playing with the petals. “I have no knowledge of such things, as you well know.”

“Mother will be bringing some of her jewels for you to wear.”

“If you believe it will help.”

“I do not tend to associate with those I think poorly of,” Lord Solo explains. “However, those I call friends have different opinions, and different circles. I promise you that I will not be the only one there you can find comfort with. Lord Cavalier, Mr. Dameron, Lady Connix, and Lady Tico will be in attendance. In addition, I have reached out to a group of men from my days of education. I have no doubt they will be eager to make your acquaintance, and perhaps even gain your friendship.”

“Are any of them wed? Am I to meet their wives, as well?”

“Not as of yet,” he says. “I am the first of the Knights of Ren.”

“The Knights of Ren?” Rey asks. “Is that a society of sorts?”

“A group of young men,” he explains, and she can once again see his cheeks flushing, his gaze shifting as though embarrassed. Still, he continues to speak. “Who teased me in my acquisition of such a large home when I bought this estate. It was proposed that they joined me here, filling the empty rooms with their laughter and boisterous nature. I neglect to remember the origin of the ‘knights’ portion of the name, but ‘Ren’ is short for ‘Renberly’. ‘Renberly’ is difficult to say when one’s lips and tongue are loose from drink.”

“They sound lovely,” she admits, because they do. A group of friends who, immediately upon their friend’s acquisition of a large home, propose to move in and fill his life with their boisterous and joyous company. She smiles, spinning the rose between her fingers. “You have good friends, sir, if they wished to rid your life of loneliness and fill it with friendship instead.”

“I will forever admire the way with which you view worldly circumstances, Miss Rey Jackson.”

Rey grins. “I look forward to meeting them,” she says, and though there is the underlying current of discomfort with everything she is experiencing, as well as nervousness, she finds the sentiment is genuine. She is looking forward to meeting them, as well as Lord Cavalier, Mr. Dameron, Lady Connix, and Lady Tico.

Lord Solo has odd choice in who he decides to associate with, but she cannot say he makes poor choices. After all, he decided upon her for a life partner. If those he associates with are like her in any way, or as kind as he keeps insisting they are, then perhaps she will find friends.

She hopes beyond hope she finds friends. Or, at the very least, people who will look beyond her inferior birth. As he did. 

One can only hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to find an explanation for the Knights of Ren was difficult. Even more difficult will be figuring out how to make their names fit into this little world, but I'll figure out a way!
> 
> Thank you to LinearA for Finn's last name - though not a direct translation, 'cavalier' is a form of French troop, so it fits pretty well, I'd say! 'Storm' just seemed too simple and I don't like 'Trooper', so Cavalier it was! Thank you so much LinearA!
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed this chapter, and if you do, please leave a kudo, or a comment! I love reading comments, they make my day so much brighter and give me so many ideas for future chapters. I love seeing what you all react to and pick up on!


	8. VIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand we're back-ish!
> 
> I'm so sorry for the lateness in chapters. Since I lost my paid internship back in April due to COVID, I'm working on getting an Etsy shop up and running, and so my time has been mainly dedicated to making enough stock that I feel comfortable opening. It's not up yet, but will be soon. If anyone's interested in cameos, I'm making polymer clay ones and combining vintage aesthetics with modern styles and trends. They're fun to make, but I put writing to the side for a bit so that I could make them. Hopefully I'll achieve a better balance once the shop is open!
> 
> Please note the update in tags regarding Ben and Poe's sexuality. Poe's will more than likely be explored more with other characters, while Ben's will be mentioned but will not be explored much. Of course, as the relationship tag suggests, this story is focused on Ben and Rey, so no need to worry about Ben and anyone else, just past mentions! (I know some people get worried about that.)
> 
> Thank you all for the INCREDIBLE response to this story, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“What’s this?”

Breakfast isn’t quite ready yet, but already there is something on the porcelain plate. Rey frowns, picking up the piece of folded paper. It’s not sealed, it’s not a letter. Something informal, then.

“The menu,” Lord Solo explains from where he’s already sitting, enjoying a steaming cup of Earl Grey. “For the dinner party. Usually, it is the mistress of the house who decides on the menu. But given that you haven’t had the full experience of a dinner party, I have created the menu for you. If there is something you have had here that you would like instead, by all means, tell me and we will have it.”

“I should like those potatoes,” Rey says. She sits in her chair, sweeping her navy blue petticoat and her white dress under her before she does so. She’s learning the etiquette thanks to a Mr. Johnson who comes every other day, a kind man with a soft smile who is patient with her and guides her to be better.

“They are on there.”

“Wonderful,” she breathes, adding a quick thank you as her tea is poured for her. She will never get used to the idea of someone doing such a simple and mundane task for her, though she does get the chance to pour her own tea when she calls a pot to her rooms in the evening, or while she’s reading or embroidering.

She recognizes the handwriting on the piece of paper, the same of the letter she received now weeks ago. The same letter that is carefully stored away in a mahogany jewelry box. After all, it’s a box where one stores their most precious and valuable things, is it not?

There’s roast lamb, with a few sauces under it, no doubt giving their guests options. A few puddings, the names of some she doesn’t recognize but she knows will be delicious. Everything she’s had here has been delicious. There are the potatoes, of course, as well as the beans she had the first night she was here, and a few other vegetables. At the top there’s a soup, with the word ‘start’ next to it.

“This is quite a lot of food,” she says, looking up at her husband-to-be.

“I look forward to your reaction to the ball, then,” he replies. “There will be more food than you have seen in your entire lifetime. It’s obscene.”

She doesn’t doubt it. It’s a comfort, as well, that he doesn’t skirt around the concept of her being so poor, so unprivileged. He acknowledges it and comments on it, and such comments are truthful. He is not denying that part of her character, and she appreciates it very much as she looks at the menu once more.

“I approve it,” she says, setting the paper aside in favor of toast and the small pot of orange marmalade.

“They will arrive Tuesday.”

“Lady Tico, Lady Connix, Mr. Dameron, and Lord Cavalier,” Rey repeats, the names branded into her mind, but she repeats them nonetheless to see her husband-to-be nod in affirmation.

“That is correct, yes.”

“Are they to stay with us?”

“If they wish to. We certainly have room for them.”

“I should like to get to know them, and would be pleased if they did stay.”

He nods, and for just a moment there’s a hint of a smile on his full lips. “I will extend the invitation.”

“Thank you.”

Though speaking to him is always pleasant, she quite enjoys eating meals with him in silence. It gives her a chance to watch the man she’s to wed out of the corner of her eye, the meticulous way he eats, every bite even and his manners impeccable.

It gives her a chance to simply observe, and breathe.

Something she much appreciates.

✥

Rey’s not used to metal on her skin.

She has one bauble from her mother, a small pendant of silver and a pretty semi-precious stone she doesn’t know the name of. She never wore it often even when it did shine, but the chain broke years ago and she’s kept both the pendant and the broken chain in a small box since.

The only other necklaces or pretty things she’s worn have been made out of leather or twine or wood or flowers. A carved pendant she made one winter and wore and played with until the notches and lines she carved became smooth, flower crowns made out of the wild weeds around her house.

She’s not used to the chill of metal when her new maid, a young woman named Kate, pulls a small chain of garnets around her neck.

They’re simple. About half the size of her pinky nail, each one surrounded in a strip of gold with loops on either end of the oval. Connected to each other, it makes for a fine strand, but she shivers as the cool metal and stone graces her bare chest.

“Sorry, my lady.”

“It wasn’t you,” Rey replies quickly. “I’m not used to wearing stones and metal.”

“If it’s any comfort, neither am I.”

Rey smiles at that, reaching up to touch the stones. They’re warming to her skin as Kate latches it, the deep wine red-pink matching the maroon of her dress.

She doesn’t wear earrings, for her ears aren’t pierced, but she does have a few jeweled pins in her hair. She slept with strips of fabric in her hair, brown locks wrapped around them, and the result is tighter curls than she’s ever had in her life. Kate’s fingers are much more skilled at it than hers are, and she doesn’t recognize the woman in the mirror as the maid adjusts a few strands, making sure they fall perfectly.

To be unrecognizable is in her favor, though, she supposes. It means she no longer looks like a poor orphan with no means of income or a future. She looks like the wife-to-be of a nobleman.

✥

The worst part is the waiting.

Lord Solo doesn’t wait with her. According to Hux, he’s making sure everything is as it should be. Which means that Rey is alone in the drawing room, plucking at the fingers of her fine white leather evening gloves. The edge is beautifully scalloped and embroidered with gold thread, and a removable maroon ribbon laced through around the top to match her dress. A clever solution, she’d thought, when Maz explained them to her. One pair of gloves with many combinations.

She’s grateful for them now, because it means that when she offers her hand to those she’s meeting, they can’t feel the way her fingers are damp with nervousness and, quite honestly, fear.

The grandfather clock in the corner offers a wonderful distraction. The face, like everything in this house, it seems, is ornately decorated. What isn’t painted with intricate flourishes or covered in gold leaf has been cut through to reveal the brass inner workings of the clock, and she stands in front of it, watching the gears click and move, the second hand moving every … well, second.

It’s about ten minutes before the door opens. She counts the seconds, because that’s all there is to do. It’s that or count her heartbeats, and she’s entirely sure she would concern herself with just how quickly it’s beating, and so seconds it is.

“Ah, so you’re the new Mrs. Solo.”

“Not yet, sir,” Rey begs, turning from the clock towards the door. And then she stops, eyes widening.

The man standing near the door is perhaps one of the most beautiful men she’s ever seen. She can recall the stories of royalty and princes as a young girl, the tales her mother spun to distract her from the manure smell wafting in from outside of their small shack and the plip-plopping of the leaking roof. This man fits every description of a dark and handsome prince, with soft-looking curls and a strong jaw and bright smile.

Rey opens her mouth to speak, but finds no words come to her lips as he steps forward to take her hands in his. He’s not so tall as Lord Solo, but his hands and smile are warm as he kisses her knuckles.

“It’s the greatest pleasure in the world to meet the woman who will wed one of my dearest friends,” he says, kissing her knuckles once more. “You are lovely, he is a very lucky man.”

“I-” Rey starts, before there’s another voice.

“Poe?”

“In the drawing room,” the man holding her hands calls.

Mr. Poe Dameron, then.

He still holds her hands as another man steps through the door, and once again her breath is knocked from her lungs.

The deep olive green of his jacket compliments his dark skin beautifully, his hat clutched in his hand. His smile is just as kind as Mr. Dameron’s, and Rey tries to compose herself as Lord Finn Cavalier steps forward.

“Miss Rey Jackson,” he says, offering a short bow. Rey pulls her hands from Mr. Dameron’s hands quickly so that she may curtsy low and properly, lowering her gaze as is proper before straightening once more.

“Surrounded by some of the most detailed works of art and craftsmanship, and yet I daresay she’s the most beautiful thing in the room,” Mr. Dameron says, his smile never waning in its brightness or warmth.

“You are generous with your compliments, Mr. Dameron,” she says, throwing in another curtsy in thanks.

“That he is,” Lord Cavalier says. “For as long as I’ve known him, I’d wager I’ve received over a thousand.”

“Over a thousand? In all those years?” Mr. Dameron asks. “More than that, surely.”

Their banter makes Rey smile, the tightness in her chest abating slightly as she watches them.

For all of Mr. Dameron’s dramatics, both in terms of manner and in terms of just how forward his handsomeness is, Lord Cavalier is the opposite. He’s quietly handsome, features rounded and soft but with a strength and presence that Rey’s unfamiliar with. Lord Solo has a strong presence, too, of course, but it’s colder, more closed off. She wouldn’t dare speak so openly in front of not only a man she’s just met but a man so far above her in society, but she has the feeling that if she asked Lord Cavalier anything, he would respond with kindness and sincerity.

“Dameron,” Lord Cavalier says.

“Hm?”

“100 pounds.”

“What for?”

Lord Cavalier nods to her, and Rey opens her mouth to speak, but has no idea what to say, having no inkling as to what the context of such a large sum of money is. “Brunette.”

Mr. Dameron waves him off. “Later, friend, later.”

It’s strange to be in the presence of such companionship. The two men are obviously close, and she has to wonder if Lord Solo’s reference to Mr. Dameron enjoying the attention of all, not just women, could be applied in this scenario. Mr. Dameron and Lord Cavalier certainly smile often at each other, and it wouldn’t be false to call some of it flirtation, she thinks.

Of course, she has no knowledge of the upper class and the friendship sand relationship dynamics within. Perhaps it truly is different entirely, and she’s reading far too much into things. She keeps her lips shut, choosing to smile instead as the two men converse about their homes, their work, their lives.

She notices family is distinctly avoided.

It’s perhaps another quarter of an hour before Lady Kaydel Connix and Lady Rose Tico arrive.

She’d felt out of place before, but with the arrival of the women, Rey suddenly very much feels like a daisy in a rose garden, with a few missing petals thanks to harsh rainstorms while the flowers around her thrive with their soft, luxurious petals and brilliant beauty.

Lady Rose Tico has the true presence of the flower she’s named for, with all the sweetness and loveliness. Her eyes light up when she smiles, and Rey’s struck breathless when she’s immediately pulled into a gentle embrace after curtsying to the lady. The noblewoman is few fingers shorter than her, radiant in pale pink silk and what look to be sapphires. Rey stares, wide-eyed, as her hands are held in Lady Tico’s, the other woman holding her fingers tightly.

“I’m so glad he’s finally found someone,” she says, her voice bright with excitement that Rey truly wasn’t expecting. At best she was expecting tolerance, at worse some level of snubbing, but Lady Tico pulls back and Rey swears the lady’s smile could light up the entire estate of Renberly.

“I do believe it was I who found him,” Rey replies, smiling in return.

“An advertisement,” Mr. Dameron says from the side. “And to think, all it took for him to find a proper wife was a few pounds, some ink, and a bit of paper.”

“If we’d known that would be all it took,” Lady Connix says, stepping forward in a navy blue gown that highlights the pale of her skin and the silver of her jewelry beautifully. “Lady Kaydel Connix.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lady.” Rey curtsies as Mr. Johnson taught her to, keeping her posture straight and not going so low as she had when she first came to Renberly.

“Forgive me for my lateness.”

Rey looks up at the sound of her husband-to-be’s voice. He steps through the doorway, impeccably dressed in black, his hair as silky-looking as always, and she feels her throat close in, making it difficult to breathe. She stares at him, at those he calls his friends, and feels once more like she absolutely doesn’t belong.

It’s terrible, truly, how familiar the feeling’s become.

“I see you’ve met Miss Rey Jackson,” he says, voice low as he walks to her side. Not even wed, and yet his presence beside her eases the tightness in her throat just slightly. Especially when he offers her his arm, and she takes it, feeling the warmth of him through the velvet of his coat and the linen of his shirt.

“We haven’t been able to speak much, but I look forward to the many conversations in our future,” Lady Rose offers, and the tightness in Rey’s chest loosens even further as the shorter woman smiles, genuinely looking and sounding delighted at Rey’s new presence in their group. Rey can’t help but smile back, nodding in thanks.

“Finn was right about her being a brunette.”

“You bet on my wife-to-be,” Lord Solo says, with a darkness that Rey hasn’t heard from him before, but his low laughter can be heard beneath the faux annoyance.

“Merely curious as to your type,” Mr. Dameron offers. “Shall we eat?”

“Yes, of course, you know the way,” Lord Solo replies.

The others make their leave of the room, leaving the lord and future lady to bring up the rear. Rey keeps her hand tight on Lord Solo’s arm, her skirt in her other hand to keep her from tripping and causing herself further humiliation than her birth and insignificance in society already has.

“You failed to mention that you surround yourself with peacocks and doves. They are all radiantly handsome,” she mutters under her breath, watching as Mr. Dameron converses ahead with Lady Connix. She can’t hear what they’re saying, too focused on keeping her shoulders back and feet right as they walk towards the formal dining room.

“Radiantly handsome?” Lord Solo asks. He frowns, and his gaze shifts from her towards his friends. There’s a pause, a moment where she can almost hear his mind working, clicking and whirling like the clock in the drawing room and then — “… ah, they are, yes. Forgive me for not mentioning that fact.”

“You hadn’t noticed that all of your friends are handsome?”

“I noticed,” he explains. “But we have been in each other’s company for years, and while there have been some ideas in regards to affection and matching, our companionship and friendship and acknowledgement that we would not make each other happy in such a way meant I have not seen them in such a way recently.”

“Mr. Dameron is charming.”

“Yes, I’m well aware,” he replies, and once again there’s that low laughter. “As is he.”

Rey smiles. “And Lady Rose is as sweet as her namesake.”

“I’ve known her for years,” he explains. “Her sister is in Canterbury, and has spoken with my mother often. Their parents passed years ago, and my mother has served as a maternal figure for the both of them. I must confess, it is largely the reason I have not considered her a partner. Beautiful though she may be, I have no wish to wed a woman who I consider almost a sister.”

“I daresay I would be lucky to call her an almost sister by marriage,” Rey confesses.

His hand finds hers on his arm. Between the warmth and strength of his forearm beneath her palm, and the way his fingers cover hers, she looks up at him with parted lips and a rapidly beating heart.

“I do hope you forgive me if I speak ill tonight,” she says, hushed and quick so that the lords and ladies in front of them do not hear her. “I mean not to embarrass you.”

“I would not have extended an offer of marriage if I presumed you would,” he mutters.

“You must think me weak for needing to be reassured of your decision,” she mutters in return.

“I think you sensible,” he replies. “I would think you foolish if you approached such a situation with false pride and lack of acknowledgement of your shortcomings.”

“The possibility of acting foolish is not so far-fetched as you may believe, my lord,” Rey says quietly.

“Then I must confess, I would much rather wed a modest fool with thoughts that are her own than a pompous lady whose thoughts parrot those around her,” he reassures.

Rey smiles, feeling his hand squeeze hers, and they say no more as they continue towards the dining room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider hitting that kudos button or leaving a comment! They make my day so much brighter.


	9. IX.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone!! Hope you all are well!! As always, thank you for all of the amazing support for this story - now that my Etsy shop is up (OgygiaOriginals, if anyone wants to check it out!), I'm hoping I'll be able to update more often, as well as my other fics! I added a liiiittle extra fluff to this chapter as a thank you for being patient and wonderful and kind and amazing and all of those good words! I love you all and hope you are taking care of yourself! Drink water, eat good things and don't forget to take your meds! Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy!

There is more food on the table than she’s ever seen in her entire life, excluding perhaps the butcher’s. This is more prepared, cooked food in one place than she’s ever seen in her entire life.

The table is beautiful, silver candlesticks gleaming and greens and vases of roses from the garden scattered throughout. It doesn’t escape her notice that many of the roses are similar to the deep, rich red of her gown, though whether it was on purpose she cannot say, nor can she for certain think where credit is due. It could have been her husband-to-be’s idea, true, but it could have also been Mrs. Kanata’s, or even Hux’s.

She’s been in the dining room before, having dinner with Lord Solo. But to see it like this, glowing and overflowing with plentiful dishes and decoration, is breathtaking and she stands for perhaps longer than is proper, just taking it all in as the others find their seats.

Lord Solo remains behind her to help her with her chair, and she gives him a small, nervous smile as he tucks her in.

There’s just so _much._ Lord Solo had given her the menu the day before, yes, and it had seemed like an absurd amount of food even then. But to see it in front of her, the herb-crusted lamb roast with a variety of sauces in silver dishes with silver spoons, the creamy potatoes she’s fallen in love with since arriving at Renberly, the roasted vegetables and green beans and fruits and puddings and—

“Have you ever been to Bath?”

It takes Rey a moment to look up and see that Lady Rose is looking at her expectantly, eyes wide and sweet while she waits for Rey’s response.

“Ah, no,” Rey admits, waiting as delicious roasted lamb is put on her plate. Arms in, demure, delicate, just as she was taught… “I regret that I haven’t traveled outside of Budrow. I have no horse nor carriage, which made my reach limited.”

“She walked here the morning the advertisement was published,” Lord Solo explains as he reaches for some fresh green beans, still crisp and green beneath the delicate, creamy sauce that’s been spooned over them. “Arrived before I had even taken breakfast, and insisted to be seen.”

“I admit I was of the mind that if I was the first, perhaps my eagerness would make an impression,” Rey replies, seeing Lady Kaydel’s smile out of the corner of her eye.

“And I will admit that it had an impact,” Lord Solo says. “But your earliness and eagerness were simply two of the reasons I considered you to be a fine candidate for marriage.”

“Imagine my shock when I received the news that not only was our Solo getting married, but I was invited to meet his bride!” Mr. Dameron teases, his smile making the candlelight seem even warmer as Rey looks to him across the table. “I was half convinced that whoever he did marry, he would keep her to himself and never let her grace us with her presence.”

“I have a duty to fulfill, and a name to maintain,” Lord Solo says. “Though I loathe to admit it, I am expected at some social functions, as is my wife.”

_Wife._

She’s heard the term so many times over the past week or two, as well as the word _lady._ Like everything that has occurred in that time, the terms make her both giddy and terrified. Rey bows her head, picking up her fork and knife and cutting the green beans into more delicate, bite-sized pieces. The cream sauce is buttery and a bit lemony, bringing out the freshness of the vegetables themselves. Across the way, she can see Lady Rose enjoying them as well, eating and drinking and laughing with an ease that comes with being surrounded by friends and familiarity and comfort in her station, Rey supposes.

She can only hope she feels the same one day.

“We’ll take you to Bath,” Lord Finn says from down the table. “We’ll take you anywhere you please.”

“Thank you kindly, my lord,” Rey replies.

“After we are wed,” Lord Solo adds. “If we are to go anywhere, I wish to be able to introduce her as my wife.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr. Dameron says. “The seaside could be wonderful.”

The seaside. Rey looks up, looking at the man with wide, eager eyes. “I would love to go to the seaside.”

The Taylors went once, years ago. They don’t speak of it much, but there is a small painting in their home, of white-capped waves and rocky cliffs and a pebbled shore. She’s been over to their home just a handful of times, but each time has asked about it, and Mrs. Taylor did so well to describe the salted breeze on her skin, fresh and sweet, and the feeling of the pebbles crunching beneath her feet. “Nearly lost my balance a few times,” the older woman would always say with a hearty chuckle.

“Then we shall take you,” Lord Solo says, like it’s so simple.

That’s the thing about this life though, isn’t it? Everything is always so _simple._

To go miles is simply getting in a carriage. To be dressed well is simply to call on someone else to make it. To eat luxuriously is to merely ask for something to eat. Everything is so much _simpler,_ and so much _stranger_ as a result.

She lowers her gaze to her food, focusing on cutting through the tender roasted lamb, the smell of the herbs crusting it almost overwhelming and reminding her of the baskets she’d bring to the grocer for a little extra coin when things got hard.

It’s uncertain what makes her discomfort so obvious. Perhaps it’s the way she’s focusing on her food instead of the conversation. Perhaps it’s her downcast gaze. Perhaps it’s her silence, the way she avoids looking at those who have been so much more fortunate in life, those who think nothing of a trip to the seaside and a meal that could feed several families of Budrow in front of them.

Regardless, it must have been something, for she’s only just finished her bite of lamb when her husband-to-be is leaning over to her. The warmth of his breath tickles her ear, and she shudders as he asks, “Are you well?”

She looks to him, finding him closer than is proper before marriage, but she’s not one for propriety and obviously neither is he. She looks up at him, into warm brown eyes filled with concern, and find that words have left her mind entirely.

It takes a heartbeat before they return to her, and then she’s eagerly reaching for the rich red wine beside her plate. “As well as I can be,” she whispers.

There’s a brush against her hand, and she startles a little, a few drops of wine spilling onto her gown. She gasps, and looks down to see Lord Solo’s hand retreating, and a glance to him shows her husband-to-be looking chagrined and apologetic, already reaching for his napkin.

“Forgive me, it wasn’t my intention to startle you,” he begs.

“No, no,” she breathes, dabbing at the mark with her own napkin. “It’s fortunate that they are the same color, I suppose, the wine and the silk?”

“Still, I apologize—”

“I ruined my favorite gown one Christmas morning,” Lady Rose offers, her smile comforting as Rey looks up to her, hand still dabbing at her gown.

Rey smiles in return and tries to even her breathing, to calm her nervous pulse as she looks down at the stain. It’s not so noticeable anymore, the color of the wine and the color of the dress thankfully similar enough. But still - she flushes, embarrassed, and knowing full well by her husband-to-be’s warnings that those who are not within his closer circle will not so be as kind and forgiving as Rose if she were to spill in their presence.

“Forgive me?”

It’s whispered by her ear, and she turns, Lord Solo’s face close to her once more. Earnest, sweet, just as embarrassed as she feels, the tips of his ears pink beneath the dark waves of his hair. She’s knocked breathless for a moment, before she nods. “Yes, yes, of course, it was no fault of yours. There’s nothing to forgive, my lord,” she says in return before picking up her fork once more.

The potatoes are delicious, a warm comfort food as she tries her best to breath deeply and calmly, listening to the laughter of Mr. Dameron and Lord Finn as they reminisce about some trip they took together. Lady Kaydel is quiet, but when she does speak there is power and presence, and when she smiles she’s radiant. Lady Rose does her best to include Rey, looking to her with kind eyes that make her feel a little less out of place.

They are good people, Rey decides, as they stand to make their way back to the drawing room for tea and dessert.

She’s not used to so much laughter and so many kind smiles towards her.

✥

“Solo has informed us you have no family.”

“Mr. Dameron,” Lady Kaydel scolds, frowning over her cup of tea.

“You are correct, sir,” Rey says. “It’s of no offense to me, I assure you. I am quite open to the fact.”

“As am I with my own lack,” Mr. Dameron replies plainly.

He’s lounging by the fire in an armchair, tea and plate of half-eaten cakes beside him. Lady Rose, Lord Solo, Lord Finn, and Lady Kaydel are seated around a mahogany table, cards in front of them as they play a game that Rey has no knowledge of and no desire to bumblingly learn tonight. She’s chosen the settee, instead, observing all of them and on her third cup of tea, the sweetened golden liquid providing an excuse to occupy her lips with something other than speaking.

It seems Mr. Dameron has noticed her silence, though, and has decided to end it for her. Perhaps it’s not an appropriate manner of conversation, but her shoulders relax slightly as he mentions his own lack of family, and she sees the solemness in his handsome face.

“You have lost yours, as well?” Rey asks. “I apologize, sir, I hope they passed peacefully.”

“They did, yes. Both illness,” Mr. Dameron says. “And I hope the same for yours.”

“Aye, the same.”

“Lady Organa is perhaps one of the kindest women I’ve ever met,” Lady Rose offers. “She’s taken care of all of us who have lost those we care about.”

“All of us?” Rey asks, frowning.

“Solo is the only one of us with a family,” Lord Finn says.

“I daresay he attracts those who have had tragedy in their lives, so that he may be a stepping stone between them and the wisdom, wit, and warmth of Lady Organa,” Mr. Dameron announces, his grin bright as he raises his teacup in a mock toast.

“I do hope you do entertain my company for more than just my mother,” Lord Solo says. His voice is dark, but there is a bit of humor in it as well, and Rey can see the left corner of his plush lips quirk up into the slightest hint of a smile.

“Of course, of course. You wound me by even considering such,” Mr. Dameron replies. “My dearest friend since childhood!”

Though Lord Solo doesn’t say anything, he looks directly at Mr. Dameron, eyes and face completely and utterly flat as he regards his friend. Rey snickers, trying to hide the sound behind her teacup when eyes turn to her. She flushes, looking down at her tea and focusing on that instead.

“I like your laugh,” Lord Finn offers. “It’s nice to hear. I sincerely hope I get to hear more of it as we’re in each other’s company more often.”

At loss for words, Rey can only smile nervously in return and say, “I hope so, too, sir.”

“Could we walk tomorrow?” Lady Rose asks. “Through the gardens? It’s been so long since I’ve seen them.”

“They haven’t changed at all,” Lord Solo says. “I regret I haven’t done much to refine them.”

“Sometimes untouched beauty is best,” Lady Rose replies, looking to Rey once more. Rey likes her smile. The Lady Rose smiles often, almost constantly, it seems, but it’s warmth never dims, and it doesn’t feel like the disingenuous smiles that Rey is somewhat used to from some of the women in town who looked down upon her and her simple dresses and basket of herbs.

“I would love to walk with you,” she says.

“Kaydel? Will you join us?”

“If you have with for me to. It sounds like a lovely time,” she says, before she puts her hand of cards down. “I win.”

“When did you…?” Lord Finn asks. The look of confusion and tone of pure befuddlement makes Mr. Dameron laugh loudly, the sound bouncing around the room.

It’s not his laugh that makes Rey smile, though the sound is warm and makes her feel a little more at ease. Instead, she grins as she meets Lady Kaydel’s eyes, the other woman smirking and giving her a wink.

She knows who she will be taking card lessons from, at least.

✥

“Tell me. Do you like them?”

“I do,” Rey replies honestly as she and her husband-to-be walk the halls of Renberly.

Though there are sconces on the wall, they give off very little light. She’s always thought him handsome in candlelight, but the silver light and dimmed shadows of the moon soften his features. He looks almost ethereal like this, pale skin glowing and the dark moles scattered across his face looking even more defined. She looks up at him, her hand on his arm as they leave Mr. Dameron and Lord Finn to their card playing. Lady Rose and Lady Kaydel retired an hour ago, but she’d stayed to watch the men continue playing, watching as their hands moved towards certain suits and learning from observation.

“They enjoyed your company,” Lord Solo explains. “I sincerely hope Mr. Dameron didn’t offend you by bringing up your family.”

“Their loss does not offend me, sir. If he were to insult them, perhaps, but such insults would be entirely baseless,” Rey replies. “Is it true that none of them have families?”

“Lady Connix’s grandfather passed last spring,” he says. “Lord Cavalier came here when it became very apparent that those with wealth are not so highly thought of in France. I’m grateful that his parents passed when he was young, and that he only had himself to worry about and provide for. I’ve told you about Lady Tico. It does seem that I attract those who have tragedy woven through their lives, though it is not intentional.”

“So I should not worry that you chose me for my tragedy?” Rey asks carefully.

“I’ve been quite clear about why I chose you,” he insists, looking down at her once more. “And will remind you however often I need to calm your fears, if need be. But no, I did not choose you for your tragedy, so to speak. I chose you because I enjoy your company and think you a fitting companion. If you wish for me to list the ways I believe so, then I will gladly.”

“There’s no need for that,” she says, cheeks flushing as they come to a small alcove, one she recognizes from their first walk through the halls, the first day they met. Overlooking the gardens with a statue in it, she walks forward, her hand leaving his arm as she moves to look out. The moonlight illuminates some of the garden, the rest cast in darkness. She’s looked over it many times the past week, feeling absurdly lucky to have the privilege of such a view. “Though I ask your forgiveness for my uncertainty.”

“I will reassure you of my decision as often as you need to be reassured,” he promises as he comes to stand next to her. “Even after such vows have been made and even after, if it is required of me. It is a simple task to undertake if it means being in your company for the rest of my days.”

He speaks so often of enjoying her company. “I admit I enjoy yours as well,” she says, looking to him and finding that he is already looking at her. It’s truthful. Though they do not spend every moment together, she cannot fathom a married couple who would. The moments they do spend together are spent either in comfortable conversation, or comfortable silence. She’s gotten used to drinking her morning tea and eating her morning meal with him, the sound of his teacup on his saucer no longer startling and his gentle voice, rough from sleep, even more warming than the Earl Grey.

Yes, she does enjoy his company. And if she were as blunt and eager as he is, she could confess that she would probably enjoy his for the rest of her days as well.

“And I enjoy theirs,” she says, of their evening’s companions. “Lady Rose in particular.”

“She is eager for a new companion,” Lord Solo admits. “Her sister is away often, and I believe she misses the company. If you would like to write to her, I have no doubt she would be overjoyed at the concept.”

“I would like that,” she confesses, smiling at her husband-to-be.

This time, when he reaches for her hand, she doesn’t startle. She looks down at he reaches for her. His hand is large, often looking almost absurd as he holds small scones and dainty porcelain teacups and crystal wine glasses. Her hand looks almost childlike in his, but she enjoys the warmth of it as he squeezes her fingers and leans forward, towards her cheek.

“May I?” he asks, his voice low, just barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” she breathes, before she can truly process what she is agreeing to.

His lips are soft and plush against her skin, and oh-so warm. She closes her eyes at the touch.

She’s kissed but twice before - childish things, from bright-eyed boys in the village. This kiss upon her cheek is more than those, she decides, for in it is the promise of comfort, of care, of reassuring her that yes, he does wish for her, despite _everything._

“Goodnight, Mrs. Solo,” he says, his words warming her ear.

“Not yet,” she whispers, turning to look up at him, her nose accidentally brushing his before he’s pulling back. Still, the name makes her heart feel as though it flips in her chest with anticipation and eagerness, the certainty of it so much better than this in-between they’re in.

“I’m aware,” he replies gently. “I wanted to hear it. Practice, I suppose.”

She smiles in return, nodding. “Goodnight, Lord Solo.”

Even after unpinning her hair and changing from her gown into her night shift, the warmth of his lips on her cheek lingers and helps her nervous heart ease its tightness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! If you enjoyed, I would be so grateful if you were to leave a comment or kudos. They make me so happy and eager to continue!


	10. X.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My mental state is at the point where I watched Emma 5 times in one day. It ended and I just hit 'play again'. Anyone else at that place yet? 
> 
> I hope you all are doing well, and as always I thank you so much for the support. Writing this story is one of the best things, with all its warmth and sweetness. Things have been a little busy with my small business, which is really good! But it also meant writing has taken a bit of a back burner. But I hope to get into a rhythm between the two soon!
> 
> Thanks again, and I hope you enjoy!

There is no other woman in England, or perhaps in all of existence, who quite captures the warmth and brightness as the sun so much as Lady Rose Tico.

Or, at the very least, Rey hasn’t ever met someone whose smile lights up a room quite like the noblewoman’s does.

“Good morning, Miss Jackson!”

Lady Rose is already at the breakfast table, radiant in a butter yellow petticoat and white dress over with some of the finest, most delicate lace Rey has ever seen. For as elegant and beautiful as she looks, her plate is stacked high with pastries and fruit and cheese, and Rey has to smile in return.

“Good morning,” Rey offers in return, watching as Rose reaches to touch the chair next to her in beckoning. Rey obliges, walking towards the other woman and taking a seat next to her. She smelled the pastries when she came in, freshly baked and beautiful, but the rich smell of bright, floral Earl Grey reaches her nose as well as a cup is poured for her. “Did you sleep well, Lady Rose?”

“Very well, I thank you. Renberly’s sheets always smell of lilac and lavender, I love it so much,” Rose says, her smile so wide her eyes crinkle as she takes the pastry tray and offers it to Rey.

“I’m glad. I hope I did not keep you waiting long?”

“No, no, not at all. And even if you had, there would be no harm done. I’m surrounded by tea and pastries from one of the best chefs in England,” the other young woman promises. “I’m glad to speak to you alone.”

For all of the warmth in the world, it cannot stop the lump that appears in Rey’s throat. She pauses, her tea cup just barely against her lip. In fear of being unable to swallow around her nerves, and therefore resulting in unbecoming choking, Rey stops, and lowers her cup to look over towards the noble woman. “Have you?”

“I wanted to ask of the wedding,” Rose insists. “Whether you’ve picked the church, the flowers, the dress?”

There is a bright eagerness to her voice as she spreads jam on a flaky pastry, and Rey finds herself at loss for words as she watches the other woman’s delicate movements. In part to study, to see how a woman who is already in society handles herself in company, but also to bide her time and gather her thoughts.

Because the truth of the matter is, she hasn’t considered any of that. There has been so much talk of the legality of all things, of the paperwork necessary, of the contracts and joining of two families - small though hers may be - that she hasn’t even considered the decorative aspect of it.

She’s considered the marriage, but not the wedding.

“I … regret to inform you that I have had no such thoughts,” she confesses nervously, offering a smile of similar anxiety. “This has all been so overwhelming, and I would have no idea where to begin with planning an event like that…”

“I could help?” Rose interjects immediately. “That is, if you require assistance, and wish for me to help, of course.”

Rey looks to the Lady Rose, and it’s very much like looking at a child who has realized they said too much, or overstepped their parents’ wishes. There is restraint, yes, but only just barely as Rey meets the eyes of a woman who no doubt finds much more joy and entertainment in planning such events than Rey would.

Or perhaps she will find joy. It’s … strange, to consider a wedding, when at most a wedding previously would have involved the church in town, a bouquet of wildflowers from her garden, and a newly mended dress. She’d never thought of planning one, because there was never much to plan. Or at least, never much she could afford to plan.

“I confess, I know very little of what is to be expected or is needed for such events,” Rey replies. “I would be both overjoyed and incredibly grateful for your input and assistance.”

One would think it was Christmas morning, with the smile Rose gives her. Immediately, the other woman takes her hands and squeezes them tightly. “Oh, thank you,” Rose breathes. “This will be so much fun, I promise you.”

Her hands are soft, and warm. No doubt from a life of barely lifting a finger, with butter-soft leather and lace gloves to cover her hands when she does have to lift one. Rey grins in return, some of the tightness in her chest easing just slightly with the thought of not only a friend, but someone to _help_ her in this strange world she’s found herself in.

“We could talk of it while walking through the garden?” Rose asks, eyes wide and eager. “Of course, only if you wish to.”

“Could talk of what?”

As rich and lovely as the navy blue she wore last night was, the Lady Kaydel looks equally as splendid in deep green. Rey watches as the other noblewoman comes in, wondering if she should ask Mrs. Kanata for the colors in her own wardrobe. They’re deeper and more like what she was used to in her past wardrobe, the dyes cheaper than the brighter colors Mrs. Kanata has planned for her petticoats.

“The wedding,” Rose explains as Lady Kaydel comes to sit across from them. Immediately she’s pouring herself a cup of tea, refusing any cream or sugar in favor of drinking it plain. She downs one cup readily, and pours herself another. “Did you not sleep well?”

“I slept very well, but I slept very little,” Kaydel explains.

“How late were you playing?”

“I dare say … 2?”

“2!?”

“I would say the lack of rest is more than worth what I received in payment last night,” Kaydel explains.

“Payment?” Rey asks, frowning as she looks between the two noblewomen.

“Lady Kaydel likes to empty the men’s pockets,” Rose explains as she passes the tray of pastries towards Kaydel. The brunette woman also takes several pastries, biting into a cake of jam and sweetened cream.

“Only in the privacy and company of our good friends,” Kaydel says, after she’s finished her bite.

“I have no doubt you would clean out every lord and sir’s pocket if you were to play in broader company,” Rose adds with a laugh.

“I have no doubt either, but my fortune is fine enough for my liking,” Kaydel says with a certain confidence and finality. “I simply like to see the look on Dameron’s face when he realizes he’s lost another 2 pounds.”

Lady Rose laughs, and Rey finds herself smiling as well, looking between the two noblewomen.

Before meeting Lord Solo, her interactions with those of higher society and nobility were strictly limited to the few who decided to take the road through Budrow. Which is to say, not many. Very few rode through, and even fewer stopped to observe the small, dare she say dirty little town. As warm as it’s people may be, London it is very much not.

Never in all her days did she consider the possibility of sitting at a breakfast table with two such nobility, and even less did she imagine daring to hope for friendship with them.

✥

“Tell us of the advertisement?”

The weather is fair, considering. Dear April has been rainy, which has resulted in beautiful, full blooms in the garden. There are a few puddles from a night shower, easily avoided with a careful step around. There’s a chill, but it’s easily kept at bay with a woolen spencer of pale green, with clever embellishment that she would have never considered but obviously Mrs. Kanata has, and executed with skill only achieved by years of craft.

Rey looks to Lady Kaydel, watching as the noblewoman stops to brush her fingers against a plush ivory blossom. Lady Rose stops, her hand on Rey’s arm, warm and reassuring.

“Yes!” Rose insists. “Please?”

“If you’re expecting something sweeping and romantic, I regret to tell you that you will not receive it,” Rey teases, reaching into the small embroidered reticule she brought. It’s one of the few things from her former life deemed proper enough to continue using, the floral embroidery done one winter when the blooms of her garden seemed so long away. She offers the advertisement to Lady Rose, who takes it with eager but careful fingers.

“You keep it with you,” Kaydel observes.

“It’s a fair reminder,” Rey explains. “That regardless of what my mind or the words of others may try to convince me of, I am as qualified as he asked for.”

“A woman who cares little for looks and coin, and has good teeth,” Rose reads. The cool spring air whips her dark hair, escaped from her fine woven bonnet with better silk flowers than Rey’s even seen in the haberdashery. “I will confess, I’m surprised.”

“Why is that?” Rey asks as Rose passes the advertisement to Kaydel to read. The small cream stones of the walk crunch beneath their feet as they continue their walk, Kaydel’s eyes focused on the paper and her steps smaller and more careful.

“I would have thought he’d be more specific in his wants of a wife,” Kaydel explains. “He’s denied almost every woman in every circle in which he finds himself inside. Ladies of fine families, with closer connections to the crown.”

Rey tries to swallow the tightness in her throat, distracting herself by parting from Rose so that she may bend to smell some of the flowers nearby. Fine families, she says. Connections to the crown. No doubt more fortune than she could ever consider—

“He has no want to make himself richer, nor closer to the crown, nor does he want to make himself miserable with one of those women,” Lady Rose says. “Qualities of all kinds are mixed within them, but like scum, snideness and ill-created self-importance have risen to the top.”

Rey turns, such harsh words surprising to be heard from Lady Rose’s lips. Her pretty face is turned down in a huffy frown as she walks to Rey’s side, and Rey feels a hand upon her back through the wool of her spencer.

“Coin cannot buy kindness, and blood does not affect the beauty of one’s soul,” she reassures gently. “I was surprised when he said he had found someone. But I will be forever glad he found someone with as much awareness and sweetness as you.”

“I-” Rey starts, thanks on her lips and her heart skipping a beat.

“I agree,” Kaydel adds, walking towards them and extending the advertisement back to Rey. “When he explained he was to marry a poor woman, I expected a woman eager to cover herself in all he has to offer. You are not that woman.”

“Do I dress poorly?” Rey asks as she looks down at herself.

“No, no,” Rose insists, taking her arm and squeezing gently, her smile soft. “You dress quite well. Lady Kaydel was expecting someone over-trimmed.”

“As entertaining as that imaginary woman may have been, I am very glad he chose you,” Kaydel promises as Rey reaches to take the advertisement back from her. The paper is thin, both from her hands and from the folding of it, and so she treats it with utmost care as she refolds it and slips it back into her reticule. “Seeing the way he looks at you… it’s a joy, truly.”

“The way he looks at me?”

“With adoration,” Lady Rose insists, her smile brightening into a full grin. “Wouldn’t you say, Kaydel?”

“Admiration, and interest,” Lady Kaydel says. “He hung onto almost every word you said at dinner. It’s quite sweet, really.”

“Very sweet,” Rose adds.

“I will confess I am overwhelmed,” Rey breathes. “With … everything.”

Now Kaydel reaches to take her hand, her smile not so bright as Lady Rose’s but no less in sweetness, kindness, or reassurance as she squeezes Rey’s fingers. “I have no doubt. But if you wish for assistance, we will gladly provide.”

“I would love assistance,” Rey says, perhaps a little too quickly, enough to be considered rude.

But neither of the two women mention it, instead keeping hold of her arms as they walk through the gardens.

✥

Her cheeks are warm, both from the chill of the morning and from laughter as they return to the house after an hour of walking through the rose gardens. What started as a mild conversation about the wedding turned into who she should invite and who should not, and for all of her husband-to-be’s reassurances and promises, as true as they may be, they are not nearly so helpful to her as the gossip between her two new friends. She’s heard of Lady Katherine’s courting, her up-turned nose and horse-like laugh as well as her disdain for anything green. She’s heard of Lady Mary’s skill in instrument but not so in conversation, the poor thing, and her plainness but fortune in finding a husband in Sir James, an equally plain and quiet but sweet man.

She’s heard of every eligible woman, eligible man, and married couple within the circles Lord Solo steps into, and while her mind is reeling with names and favorable and unfavorable traits and descriptions of face and fanciful trimmings, there is a weight that has been lifted. She will not feel so entirely lost when she is to be introduced, now. For while Lord Solo could provide names, he probably could not provide the description of qualities, at the very least not to the degree that Lady Kaydel and Lady Rose have given her.

“Ah, so you’ve returned at last,” Mr. Dameron calls from where he’s sitting with Lord Cavalier at an iron table, both with small books. Lord Solo stands beside them, and as the women step forward, he does as well, extending his hand to Rey to help her up the few stairs to the outdoor porch.

His touch is a comfort, and she smiles, letting him help her up the marble steps and towards the men waiting. She hears Lady Rose’s light giggle, and Lady Kaydel’s low muttering, and turns to see both women smiling.

“Did you enjoy yourself?” Lord Solo asks, and she looks up at him, his face soft but eyes eager as he continues to hold her hand.

“Very much so,” she reassures him, and is treated to a gentle, closed-lipped smile.

“Lunch is almost ready, so I hear,” Mr. Dameron says.

“Almost,” Lord Solo replies. 

“Mr. Dameron?” Rey calls.

“Yes, Miss Jackson?” he asks, leaning forward on the table and grinning that dashing grin at her.

“I’ve asked Lady Kaydel to teach me how to play cards, I was wondering if you would enjoy a game, perhaps after dinner?”

Immediately, the handsome man’s face falls. It’s no less handsome, of course, but she watches as his smile disappears and his eyes dart to Lady Kaydel, who merely raises a brow at him without betraying any other feeling. “I … yes, of course, I would be overjoyed. Would you not rather learn from me, though? I have been playing far longer than Lady Kaydel, has. I know more tricks.”

“No,” Rey replies, her grin betraying her. “I do believe I’d like to learn from her.”

Mr. Dameron looks between the two women before he groans, reaching up to rub at his brow. “I came with very little coin, I should have you know. I was not expecting to pay anyone but my driver and my valet this trip.”

“I won’t be teaching her everything just yet,” Kaydel promises, but there’s laughter in her voice as she approaches the table and takes a cookie from his plate. “You have very little to fear regarding your wallet.”

“On the contrary, I have everything to fear,” Dameron replies. “If you insist upon playing cards every night, I will leave this house a poor man.”

“My former house is empty, if you please,” Rey adds. “The roof leaks when it storms, but there is a wonderful garden of wildflowers and herbs outside the front door?”

Mr. Dameron stares at her for a moment, and she worries she misstepped, before he’s sighing good-humoredly and letting his head fall back dramatically. “So I will lose all my money, and I will be soaking wet, but at the very least I will be in comfort that Lady Kaydel Connix will have her fortune, and I will smell wonderful for the rest of my days.” He hums. “Not a bad life."

Lady Kaydel smacks his shoulder with the back of her hand, and he laughs.

There is pressure to the top of her head, and Rey stills, eyes widening in surprise before she hears the gentle smack of lips and warmth at her back. Turning, she sees Lord Solo, lingering close and looking down at her.

“Forgive me,” he begs. “I should have asked.”

“Consider this permission to show your affection, my lord,” Rey says, her words leaving on a soft breath as she looks up at her husband-to-be. “I cannot deny my enjoyment whenever you indulge me.”

“I missed our breakfast,” he says.

“As did I,” she agrees. “But Lady Connix and Lady Tico make very fine company, and I’m looking forward to spending as much time with them as they will allow.”

“I’ve offered my assistance for the wedding, and Miss Jackson has accepted,” Lady Rose exclaims.

“Ah, yes, the wedding,” Lord Cavalier says, looking up at the couple. “When can we expect invitations?”

“As soon as my wife-to-be has decided the date,” Lord Solo explains.

“As soon is proper and manageable,” Rey replies.

“June, then,” Lord Solo decides. “If that is agreeable? It should give us time to meet my family, as well as present ourselves as engaged, as is required.”

“A June wedding, how lovely,” Rose agrees.

“A June wedding then,” Rey says.

“Peonies and roses,” Lord Cavalier pipes up.

“Lord Cavalier enjoys flowers,” Rose explains to Rey. “He presses them in his spare time, and draws their fresh neighbors while the others are drying.”

“I should like to see them, if you would permit me?” Rey asks.

“I regret I did not bring any, but if the Lord and Lady Solo should like to honor me with a visit?” Lord Cavalier asks.

“I believe we would enjoy that very much. Thank you for your hospitality,” Lord Solo replies.

His hand finds the small of her back, and she leans against him. Perhaps a bit more than is proper, but between the warmth of his hand, and the size and weight of it, the feeling grounds her as she watches those she hopes to consider friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, please consider leaving a kudo or a comment! They make me so happy and make my entire week!


	11. XI.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with these Regency darlings! I love and am so appreciative of how much you all love this story. This is my little escape fic, with shorter chapters so I don't feel pressured to get too long or deep and I can knock one out in an hour or two. It's wonderful, really, and I can't thank you enough for loving it as much as I do. It's like the M&M of stories for me - short, sweet, and then so easy to just pop another chapter in! 
> 
> Thank you again, and I hope you enjoy this chapter and all it's sugary sweetness!

“You show her affection so soon, and so openly.”

“I am in the company of dear friends,” Ben replies, pausing his reading but not lifting his eyes from the pages as he hears Poe’s footsteps on the hardwood nearby. “And she is to be my wife. I see no reason why I should not in friendly, accepting company.”

“Accepting,” Poe says. “I have no doubt you are well aware of the gossip already spreading about your choice of a wife.”

“And I have no doubt you know I don’t give a damn,” Ben replies as he looks up at his friend. The man has stopped walking, but has not stopped tossing the apple up and down, catching it as he watches Ben. “I picked her not because she is the candidate best suited for society, but because she is the candidate best suited for me.”

“And I applaud you for that.”

“If you’re not going to eat the apple, may I?” Finn asks from his chair. Poe tosses it to him, the younger man biting into the fresh fruit with a crisp crunch. The older man immediately looks at a loss, his plaything gone, and Ben smirks a little from behind his book.

“She’s very pretty, I’ll say that.”

“And clever,” Finn adds.

“And bright,” Poe insists, looking to Ben. “Forgive me, she’s not just pretty, she-”

“She is lovely, yes,” Ben agrees, abandoning his book in favor of conversation as he fully looks up at his friends. “And I will admit that her beauty is one of the reasons I picked her. But overall, I find her a wonderful companion, and I enjoy waking up every day knowing I will see and speak with her.”

“Then that’s wonderful,” Finn promises. There’s an intensity to him, as well as a warmth that Ben has always appreciated, for it makes the times he genuinely grins and radiates happiness so much more precious. Now is one of those times, his smile lighting up the room. “I am happy for you, truly. I thought we’d never see the day.”

“I thank you. I would argue that Poe was always far less likely to wed than I was.”

“One day,” Poe says, with far more promise than Ben’s used to. The lord raises a brow at his friend. “I will admit, you’ve given me hope, Solo. If you can find a fair and sensible companion through the means of an advertisement, then I can certainly find one.”

“Hopefully not by the same means,” Finn teases. “I shudder to think what requirements you would include in print.”

“You wound me, sir,” Poe replies, his voice just as light and teasing as his hand comes to his chest. “I would never write such things publicly.”

Finn just raises a brow, taking another bite of the apple, the sound loud in the small sitting room.

Ben smirks slightly, shaking his head and, not for the first time in his life and not so seriously, wondering if he picked his companions well.

✥

It’s a joy to see her smiling.

Though she’s smiled at him during her stay at Renberly, there has been a hesitancy to it. And of course, he can understand her trepidation, and her fear. He can’t even imagine what is going through her mind and heart, but he hopes beyond hope he can soothe them somewhat.

Even if that requires repeating his decision, and asking Mrs. Hale to add creamed potatoes to the menu yet again.

“No, no, like this, see?”

“You move far more elegantly than I do, Lady Rose.”

“Nonsense, it only takes practice.”

He could teach her, yes. And he very well will before they attend their first ball or dinner party with the outer circles of his society. But Lady Rose has taken it upon herself to teach Miss Jackson some of the simpler dances, and he will admit, it’s enjoyable to watch.

Though Miss Jackson’s movements aren’t so fluid or graceful as Lady Rose’s, the noblewoman is right. It comes with practice, and he is more than happy to practice with her, just as he is happy to watch the two women dance together.

He doubts that he will hear so much of her laughter when they practice, anyways. It seems to come out more with the shorter woman, who despite her height has taken it upon herself to be the gentleman of the dance, leading Miss Jackson and guiding her through the steps.

“I daresay your feet will ache soon,” Poe calls, setting a card down. Lady Kaydel immediately snatches it up, and the older man raises a brow at her. “I saw that.”

“I intended you to,” Kaydel replies as she sets her own card down. “You gave me exactly what I needed.”

“Did I?”

“Yes.”

“Or are you bluffing?”

“You don’t know.”

“May I take a turn?” Finn calls out to the women dancing, abandoning his cards. Kaydel and Poe simultaneously lunge for them, resulting in their palms smacking to the table with a loud ‘thwack’.

Ben chuckles, watching as Lady Rose gives a playful curtsy to the French lord before he’s offering his hand to Miss Jackson.

Oh, but to see her cheeks flushed like that, from exertion and laughter. “Only a few,” she says, her voice light as she takes his hand. “My feet are beginning to ache, but I suppose I must get used to many dances.”

“Only if you wish it,” Ben calls.

“Solo would dance with every woman at balls,” Lady Rose declares, sitting next to him and reaching for some lemonade and her fan to sate her thirst and cool her cheeks.

“Did he?” Miss Jackson asks as she steps close to Lord Cavalier, their hands together for the moment before they step apart.

“Only to avoid deep and meaningful conversation,” Poe explains.

Ben hums, but doesn’t disagree with his friend, watching as his bride-to-be dances with Finn.

She’s not so clumsy as she was before. He has his book, yes, but he’d barely paid attention to the contents in favor of watching her as Lady Rose guided her through the movements. No longer are her feet so bumbling, and no longer are her hands so sporadic. She is far from an elegant swan of a dancer, he will readily admit, but she is learning, and quickly. And more importantly, she knows the steps well enough that there will be no whispers about her skill and grace.

There will certainly be whispers about everything else. He is not so unaware of insidious gossip, including of his own name and bloodline, considering the likes of his father. There can be no doubt, though, that Lady Rose and Lady Kaydel are far more knowledgable of the likes of gossip his bride-to-be will be facing. And how to minimize it and its hurts.

“One, two, three,” Finn counts, and Ben watches as Miss Jackson mouths the same. Her brow is furrowed just the slightest bit as she tries to match her rhythm with the lord’s, her freckled nose scrunching. She’s gotten more freckles, no doubt a result of being outside with the other women. Propriety and social standards would suggest a parasol, and yes, that is something he neglected to ask Mrs. Kanata about. But he likes her like this. With freckles upon her skin and her face scrunched slightly in concentration as Finn leads her through the motions, his hand upon her waist and guiding her in a circle before they return to stand together.

“It should look effortless,” Finn tries to tell her.

“Is it that obvious that I am trying?” Miss Jackson asks.

“A little,” Finn replies. “But it is your first time, and so it’s only natural. I have no doubt Lord Solo will practice more with you before it is time for you to be presented.”

“Of course,” Ben calls. “We will practice as much as needed until you feel comfortable with what is required of you.”

“You claim as though I will ever be comfortable,” Miss Jackson teases with a laugh that holds more fear and nervousness than he would like. And so he stands, handing his book to Lady Rose so that she may mark his space with the ribbon inside, though truly he has no context for what is on the pages anyways. He was too busy paying attention to his bride-to-be to care.

“May I?” he asks, offering his hand to her.

At a proper ball, her hands will be covered. With lace or leather or linen gloves. He won’t get the feeling of her hand in his. He won’t get to feel the callouses that came from her life before, the roughness that is slowly softening with creams and butters and regular care but hasn’t left her skin quite yet. Her hand will be warm, but not so warm as it is now, and he regrets that he began this with her bare-skinned, because he knows he will loathe when he has to hold her glove.

Finn parts, moving to the piano forte. “Should I?"

“Do you wish for music?” Ben asks.

“I know not whether it will be helpful or detrimental until it is played,” Miss Jackson breathes, her eyes wide and warm as she stares up at him. “You are much taller than Lady Rose or Lord Cavalier…”

He chuckles. “I am, yes. But the movements are the same, if that is of any comfort to you.”

“I only ask your forgiveness if I step upon your toes.”

“I assure you, you have it.”

The true player of the group is Lady Kaydel, as Lord Finn prefers the violin, but he can play well enough. He begins a simple waltz, and Ben steps forward.

Her steps are still uncertain, and he can still just barely hear her muttering under her breath, whispers of the rhythm as she steps forward as well and puts her hand up to his. They circle, her gaze more on her feet than on him, but that’s understandable. He says nothing, merely putting his hand on her waist to guide her when required.

He hears her little intake of breath, hears the way her words stumble for a moment, “T-two..” But says nothing, parting from her as the dance requires before they raise their hands once again.

Now she does look at him. Her mouth still moves, lips forming the beat as they step together. For a moment, he is trapped in her gaze. This woman… _This woman is to be his wife._

He offers her a small smile, closed-lipped and barely a moment of his lips, but he sees her own mouth quirk up in return as they part and then come back together for one more turn. His hand comes to her waist, hers resting on top of his, and he turns her before the song ends, his lips just barely brushing the back of her head as Finn finishes the last few notes.

“You didn’t step on my feet,” he mutters, looking down at her as her head tips back and she meets his gaze.

“I didn’t,” she whispers. “But I doubt I was as graceful as Lady Rose.”

“Perhaps not,” he replies. He’s still holding onto her, feeling her waist through the silk of her gown. She’s thin, still, too thin, from a life of wondering when her next meal will be… but he will care for her. In any way he can. “But you have made progress, and I am delighted.”

Her grin is sweet and genuine as he steps back. The door to the drawing room opens with a gentle creak as Hux steps in, and announces dinner.

✥

For as much as he enjoys his company, he will admit his selfishness and his disappointment at barely having a moment alone with the woman who is to be his wife. Lady Rose has become attached to her like a barnacle, and while he is very glad to see Miss Jackson smiling and interacting with a woman she has told him she now considers a dear friend, he can’t contain his delight when he sees brown hair and freckled shoulders through the window three days after his friends’ arrival.

“Taking tea outside?” he calls as he steps through the archway onto the patio. She turns, a book in hand and bonnet abandoned on the nearby table.

“Lady Kaydel and Lady Rose have gone in to town,” she explains, smiling at him as he approaches. She slips an olive green ribbon between the pages of the book, and he reaches a hand out as she looks up.

“No, no, please, continue,” he says. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. May I sit with you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

She opens her book once more as he settles into the chair beside her, the late morning breeze cool enough that she’s wrapped herself in a shawl. It really is a lovely day, he thinks, looking out to the gardens and hearing birds chirp from somewhere above.

And perhaps this is what he enjoys about her the most. The fact that he can sit with her and feel perfectly content saying nothing at all. Their mornings before the arrival of the others were filled with tea and cakes and fruit and bits of cured meat as well as paperwork and letters and books. Though he enjoys conversing with her, very much so, there’s a certain peace that comes with just being by her side and listening as she flips the pages of whatever novel she’s decided to indulge in.

“You had no wish to go to town?” he asks after she’s flipped a few pages and he’s enjoyed the silence.

“I am grateful, sir,” she says. “That I can call such wonderful, beautiful, and kind women friends. However, I am … unused to such company?” She looks up at him, and he can see her cheeks flush as she realizes the sadness of what she just said. “I cannot think of a name I could recall as a friend, before meeting them. An acquaintance, perhaps, for occasional company, but I kept to myself, and at the time, I preferred it.”

“If you prefer for me to leave—” he starts.

“No, no,” she promises. “It’s not that. I just … I suppose a balance is needed, if that makes sense to you?”

“It does, yes,” he replies. “You see I am not in the company of Lord Cavalier or Mr. Dameron.”

“I see, yes.”

“They’re off … doing … something.” He frowns, looking back towards the house. “I know not what.”

She smiles, putting her ribbon in her book and setting it aside. “I must thank you.”

“For what?”

“Inviting them,” she explains. “I have friends, ones who have quite literally leapt at the opportunity to assist me in whatever is required. Lady Rose is offering to help with the planning of our wedding, Lady Kaydel has a wonderful sense of style and fashion and has offered to lend me some of her pieces so that Mrs. Kanata can look at them, and Lord Cavalier and Mr. Dameron have offered their own time to make me feel comfortable and at ease. I will be forever grateful for their kindness, and their generosity. And it would not have happened if you had not invited them to stay.”

“As strange and rambunctious as some may be,” Ben says. “They have their charms, and their hearts. I would much rather surround myself with those whose traits may be slightly mixed within them, but whose presence warms rather than chills those around them. I cannot say the same for others, and I will confess, I know not what the others will say of our union. I regret to tell you I cannot prepare you for the severity of what will be said, but I can reassure you that whatever falls from their lips, it will not affect my decision. We will wed. I promise you that.”

He can see her posture loosen slightly as she leans back in the chair, a hand coming to her brow to brush away a stray hair the breeze has decided to play with. “I feel as though I must prepare for battle,” she says, laughing slightly. “And my weapons are to be the jewels around my neck and how smoothly my feet move to a waltz.”

“Your weapons are to be your wit, and your worldview,” he promises. “The rest is trifling and trivial and matters little to me.”

“Aye, but it matters to those around you,” Miss Jackson says. “And so it is important in some regard.”

“In some regard.”

“Rey!”

Ben turns, looking behind him to see Lady Kaydel and Lady Rose as well as Lord Cavalier and Mr. Dameron coming in through the inner courtyard, weaving around statues and lavender to walk through to the patio. Lady Rose is grinning, rushing to his wife-to-be’s side and showing her a basket full of things.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” Rose breathes, showing Miss Jackson an olive green ribbon. “Just look at how it changes in the sunlight! From green to gold, almost, it’s just lovely.”

“Indeed it is,” Miss Jackson replies, reaching for the ribbon. “I’ll have to join you, next time.”

“Yes, I would love it,” Rose insists.

“You went into town with them,” Ben realizes as Kaydel and the men step forward.

“I had a timepiece that’s been running slow,” Finn explains.

“I went to pay my debts to this one,” Poe says, nodding towards Kaydel who shows her own basket overflowing with delicate ribbons and trims.

“You paid your debt in ribbon,” Ben realizes.

“A promise is a promise,” Poe replies with a shrug. “She’s beat me many, many times over.”

“And am sure I will beat you again.”

“You say that as though I will play you again.”

“You say that as though you won’t,” Rose teases. “You’re a glutton for punishment, Mr. Dameron.”

“I hardly call paying for a few ribbons punishment.”

Ben ignores his bickering friends, instead watching as his wife-to-be pulls a baby blue ribbon from Lady Rose’s basket. Her fingers rub against the silk, watching as it shifts and changes in the light. Her smile is soft and sweet, and he watches as she finds pleasure in a simple bit of fabric.

A different worldview indeed.

And one he hopes she will never see beyond.


	12. XII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again we are saying fuck historical accuracy and proper society norms in favor of cuteness. One day I'll stick to true accuracy, but in the mean time, have some fluff. I have the feeling we all need it.

“I loathe to have you leave so soon.”

It was grey when she woke, and it’s continued to be on the day her new friends leave. The sky is dark with rainclouds above them, but so far it holds its tears as she clutches Lady Rose’s hands in hopes of delaying their farewell.

“You’ll see us in a week’s time,” Rose promises, her fingers warm through her butter-soft leather gloves, and smile even warmer against the morning’s chill.

“When you say so it seems like such a short time away, but then my mind tells me it’s so long,” Rey says. She wonders perhaps if she’s sounding a bit too much like a whining child, but after so much laughter and comfort from the others, to imagine the house without them is … strange. “I will be counting the days. No, the hours.”

“The minutes, the seconds,” Mr. Dameron teases from somewhere behind her, and Rey turns, seeing him standing with Lord Cavalier and Lord Solo.

“By the time you truly miss our company, we shall be together again,” Lord Cavalier reassures her.

“You say that as though I do not miss your company already,” Rey replies.

She’s a bit embarrassed at how much her heart truly aches that they are leaving. It will be strange not to enter the dining room and see Lady Rose already at the table, bright-eyed and smiling. It will be odd not to listen to Mr. Dameron’s exaggerated groans as the stars emerge, as Lady Kaydel wins yet another several pounds from him. She will miss Lord Cavalier and the conversations they’ve had over tea about the few books she’s read, the way he leaned forward and listened intently to every word she says, nodding in understanding and interest. The evenings will be empty without the banter between all of them.

And above all she will miss the smile that lingered upon her husband-to-be’s lips the entirety of the visit. He smiles with her, yes, but there is a difference, she thinks, when such joy and energy is consistently present and almost persistent.

“We will see you at the Turners,” Lord Solo says as he helps Lady Kaydel into her carriage. Wearing a new hat and gloves, paid for by Mr. Dameron, she looks quite pleased with herself as she settles into the velvet seat.

“Do give your mother my best wishes and affection?” she asks as he closes the door. Rey steps up, reaching for her hand through the window.

“She will be arriving after the dinner at the Turners,” Lord Solo explains. “But of course, always. She misses you dearly, perhaps I can have everyone for the summer for a week or two.”

“I would be delighted,” Kaydel says, smiling at Rey and squeezing her hand. “I look forward to the day your hand wins over Dameron’s.”

“I look forward to the day I see you win again,” Rey teases. “So, in a week’s time.”

“I will not be playing cards at the Turners!” Mr. Dameron calls.

“Ah, yes, I forgot you loathe to lose in public,” Kaydel calls back.

Of all of their warmth and generosity, Rey thinks she will miss the ache in her stomach that comes from laughing so much the most.

✥

Early mornings before Renberly weren’t pleasant.

In the winter, she would wake shivering, and shuffle through the darkness to stoke the fire once more. In the spring, the blue light just before dawn woke her, if not the damp chill in the air. The same went for autumn. Summers were reasonably pleasant, with sunshine and warm dew some days, but rain and dripping roofs and the smell of damp wood and stone during most.

At Renberly, she still wakes to the blue light. She wakes to fog across the fields and gardens. But she can stand by the window, holding her first cup of tea, wrapped in soft linens and wool, and it’s pleasant. Beyond pleasant, it is perfect.

It’s strange to wake up to quiet. To know that her day will be filled with quiet, now that their guests have left. But, and if such a feeling is selfish, may she be forgiven, she has missed the moments with just herself and her husband-to-be. Said moments were few and far between while their guests were here. She should be grateful that they thought so highly of her that they sought her out so often, but there’s a comfort and peace with sitting with just Lord Solo.

“You miss them.”

Without their guests, breakfast has returned to the more informal type. A selection of meats and pastries and tea in one of the drawing rooms, had with a book or over the news of the day. Rey looks up from her novel, seeing Lord Solo with his own tome and watching her carefully.

“I do,” she replies honestly. “But, if I may be honest, sir, I missed this more.”

Even several feet away, even across the room, she has learned to recognize the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, and revel in the fact that she was the one who brought it to his pale face.

“Did you?” he asks.

“I did,” she says with a nod. “I greatly enjoyed their company, their laughter, their warmth, and their advice. However, there was no quiet with them, at least not with Mr. Dameron or Lady Kaydel in the room. I’ve missed being quiet with you.”

He opens his mouth, and the words he was contemplating saying seem to get caught on his tongue. For he stops for a moment, considering, before his mouth closes and he looks back down towards his novel with pinked cheeks.

There is a flicker of a second, a half of a heartbeat where she wants to inquire as to what thought went through his mind, but she thinks better of it, and returns to her own novel.

✥

Walking through the gardens with Lady Rose and Lady Kaydel was a fine time. With their hands upon her arms and their laughter in her ear, she enjoyed herself thoroughly. But as she walks through the gardens by herself, she thinks she may prefer this. The gentle crunch of the small, pearly-white stones beneath her soft leather shoes, the cool fog that still lingers from the morning into the afternoon.

The rose stem between her fingers, the thorns scraped off with her nails so that she can spin without care or worry of being pricked, is slightly weakened from her constant touch. Still, she enjoys the mindless feeling of it moving against her skin as she wanders through the bushes. There were wild roses behind her little hovel of a home, but they never grew quite full enough to keep prettily.

To see the varieties of Lord Solo’s garden, with all of their pinks and reds and peaches and creams is truly breathtaking, the result of many years of cultivation and tender hands.

If he purchased it, it’s likely that it was the work and dedication of the owners before, she thinks. But still, it’s to be admired. And Lord Solo has obviously taken up the mantle of keeping it well and lively.

“Lady Solo!”

It’s not her title yet, but she still looks up as a voice calls to her from somewhere to the right. She narrows her eyes at the fog and the figure walking towards her, not recognizing the form as he walks towards her. The closer he becomes, the surer she is she does not know him, but still she walks to him, clutching the rose in her fingers.

He’s an older man. She can see the grey of his hair, nearly blending in with the fog that’s settled over the shrubs and hedges. A few steps closer, and she can see his clothes, worn and stained, and his leather gloves. A working man.

“Are you who I should express my respect and admiration for these blooms?” she calls as she gets closer, offering a smile in return of his bright grin.

He’s shorter than her, only by an inch or two, and his hair seems to have decided to turn white instead of leave his head like she’s seen in some of the men in the village, with their receding hairlines and poor attempts at making their remaining strands last for as long as possible. Immediately, one of his leather gloves comes off, and a calloused hand reaches for hers as he bows as best he can with the back of someone who has worked for many, many years.

“Aye, I am. Forgive me if I startled you. It’s been many years since Renberly has had a lady to call its own, and I was a bit eager once I saw you in the distance,” he says with a soft, almost nervous laugh. “My name is Victor, my lady.”

“Not a lady yet, sir,” Rey reassures him. “There is no need for formalities. At present, I am merely Miss. Jackson.”

“Merely?” Victor asks. “No, no, he chose you, you can’t be merely anything.”

“So this is where all the kindness of the world went,” Rey teases. “Lord Solo has been hoarding it all for himself.”

The old man’s laughter is hearty and rich, if a bit rickety in his chest. His dark eyes crinkle with mirth, and he nods. “What a compliment! I thank you, my lady.”

“Miss Jackson!”

Lord Solo’s voice, for all of its softness, carries far through the fog to her. She turns, seeing his figure, but makes no move towards him, instead remaining with Victor. “You said it’s been many years since Renberly had a lady. How long have you tended its gardens?”

“Since my father taught me how to prune the rose bushes,” he explains as the lord walks closer to join them. “My grandfather was the first.”

“I loathe to think of the day you put down your shears,” Lord Solo says, raising his voice slightly so that they may hear him as he approaches. He’s changed since breakfast, Rey notices, now in a deep navy wool coat to combat the chill of the late morning. His hair is not so soft as it usually is, the fog dampening the dark strands as it has hers. “He was here when I purchased the property, and I dared not remove him from it.”

“It is a good thing you did not,” Rey adds. She smiles towards the gardener. “I have not seen such a beautiful garden in all my life.” She pauses for a moment, her cheeks flushing. “Though, I must confess, the only gardens I’d seen before were in the village of Budrow, and I’d hardly call them gardens.”

“I thank you still,” Victor promises before he straightens as much as he can. “I should return to work. My lord, my lady.”

Rey doesn’t take the time to correct him, thinking perhaps she should get used to the title that makes her heart feel so tight in her chest. He turns and leaves, and she can see the stains on his thick linen overalls. Years of dirt and grass and mud pressed into the fabric like paint to a canvas, a portrait of a lifetime of dedication to not only the gardens, but those who have owned the property.

“He is sweet,” Rey says, looking towards her husband to be.

“He is, yes. I am glad you met him. I was wondering if you would join me for lunch?”

“Yes, of course.”

His footsteps are larger and heavier than hers, the gravel crunching louder beneath his boots. But the constant sound of it is comforting like the ticking of a clock as they walk back towards the manor, her rose stem weaker but still holding as she spins it between her fingers.

“I told him you seem to surround yourself in kindness.”

“Did you?”

She has heard the same words asked to children when they confess their afternoon’s activities. Well-meaning parents saying two words in a soft voice, entertaining the thoughts and whimsies of those younger than they are. She’s heard it into her adulthood as well, by those she’s known her entire life, who still saw her as Miss Jackson, the poor little girl who lives down the lane in Plutt’s old cottage.

And Lord Solo could have said it in the same tone, but he does not. He is genuinely asking if she said such a thing to the old gardener, and, underlying, why she said such a thing.

“Yes,” she says. “Because you do.”

“It was not my intention,” he explains. “Lady Rose and Lady Kaydel were friends of my mother before they were friends of mine. A mere acquaintance, Lord Cavalier asked for assistance once he arrived in England, and I was happy to give it to him.”

“And Mr. Dameron?”

“A friend from childhood,” he explains. “Our parents were friends, before his mother fell ill, then his father.”

“Still,” Rey insists. “They are kind, and warm, and enjoyable company. Surely you have some choice in the matter as to who you associate with.”

“Who I associate with and who I choose to befriend are two entirely different matters,” he says. He walks with his hands behind his back, making his already broad shoulders all the broader. She stares up at him, not for the first time admiring her husband-to-be’s form and the quiet respect it commands. It will not be her last time, either. “But I confess you are right. I find life much more enjoyable when I surround myself with kindness rather than cruelty.”

“How fortunate that you should have that choice.”

“I would argue it’s not fortune,” he replies. “There are some who think me rude for being so selective.”

“I would argue it is not rudeness, but self preservation,” Rey insists. “Something that is innate to human nature.”

“There are many things innate to human nature that one could argue should be ignored.”

“One could argue,” Rey muses. “But I won’t. So long as one chooses compassion and empathy over cruelty and pettiness, I care not about what other vices and urges they indulge in.”

Lord Solo laughs. It’s soft, barely a chuckle. It’s more of a powerful exhale than anything else, but there’s a gentle, almost disbelieving smile upon his full lips, and to get either are rare enough that she cherishes both.

“Every day,” he starts, “you convince me more and more that I made the right choice.”

“The right one,” she argues. “But not the most proper, or the most appropriate.”

“No. But once again, I would rather surround myself with kindness rather than cruelty. And that I have.”

✥

She’s more than certain that it is improper.

It is nice, certainly, but it is improper for him to be showing her so much affection.

There are kisses to her hair in the morning, when he is just barely awake and she’s already in the drawing room, curled up with her book, tea, and pastries. There are kisses to her hands after lunch as they part ways, he to do his work regarding correspondences and her to do whatever she so pleases, whether that be wandering the manor or the gardens outside of it. There are kisses to her temple as she returns from wherever she’d been, and then one to her cheek, soft and sweet and delicate as a butterfly’s touch just before they depart for the night.

She has not missed the looks the servants give each other. The way Hux seems to avert his eyes. And she’s not so far removed from the expectations of courting and relationships to know that such affection is very much not shown.

And yet here he is anyway.

It shouldn’t surprise her, given the fact that he chose a poor woman of no family name and no inheritance and he associates himself with an émigré and a man whose preference for lovers varies more than it should.

But it’s still a question that lingers on the tip of her tongue as they sit and indulge in after dinner treats, the fire crackling as the spring night air grows colder.

Once again, his lips grace her cheek when he has decided to retire, but this time, she stops him before he can leave the room. She reaches for him, her fingers just brushing against the fine wool of his jacket, and he pauses, looking down at her in confusion.

“You kiss me,” Rey says. “Why?”

For all of their conversations, as many as they have been, he has always spoken back. He has always had an opinion, an explanation, a retort to offer. Or, at the very least, she has seen his mind as it worked to create such a reply.

Not this time.

This time, he gives her a look of complete and utter confusion. There are no raised brows, no frowns, nothing of the exaggerated expression to indicate such. But she knows her husband-to-be enough now. There’s a blank look in his gaze, and he’s rendered speechless as he stares at her.

It takes a moment, but he finally starts with, “I…” before he stops, and considers her words once more. He turns towards her fully, and then his lips turn down into a concerned frown. “Does it offend you? Forgive me, I should have asked, I shouldn’t have assumed you would be wanting for such displays—”

“It’s not that I’m not wanting,” she insists quickly, and not for the first time since their yet-unannounced engagement, she wishes that they were able to have such a conversation without the presence of any servants. But not yet. Not quite yet. “But such acts of affection could be considered … inappropriate, and I wonder if you would rather not risk it?”

“Miss Jackson,” he says. His voice is lower, softer, sweeter. “But I would much rather risk the whispers of servants and the laughter of our friends than go a day without feeling the softness of your skin against my lips. If you have no desire to indulge me, then I regret I have offended you so, and ask for your forgiveness.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” She’s shocked she can speak, truly, the breath knocked from her lungs at such a confession. A glance to the manservant standing by one of the doors, and she sees he is examining a painting with far more intensity than is reasonable. “I simply have no wish for you to risk more than you already have.”

“Our entire engagement is a risk, Miss Jackson,” he says. “And one I am very happy to take. To kiss you is the same.”

“Then by all means, kiss me,” she says before she can stop the words from slipping through her teeth.

She’s given little warning before his lips are on hers. Between the shock of her own statement and the feeling of his hand coming to her cheek, she’s knocked breathless. If there was any air in her lungs, he would steal it from her with the softness of his lips and the tenderness of his kiss. His hand is warm, so warm, cupping her cheek and jaw.

It’s over far too soon for her liking, even though it feels as though the mahogany grandfather clock in the corner has ticked a hundred times or more. She can just hear the gentle sound of their lips parting over the ticking of the clock and the crackling of the fire, and she immediately wants to hear it again, wants to feel him again, taste him again as he pulls back.

She opens her eyes, and sees him staring at her in something like awe before there is a kiss to her brow.

“Good night, Miss Jackson.”

The words are muttered against her skin, by those same plush lips she just felt against hers, whose pressure and warmth she can still feel. It almost feels as though she is buzzing, shaking, as he pulls away and leaves her in the sitting room to put her hand to her lips.

The servant across the room is kind enough to keep examining the still life painting as she grins, and then laughs.


	13. XIII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two just insist upon being soft and warm and sweet and who am I to deny them?
> 
> Thank you so much for your continued support and love for this fic, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

“Are you happy here?”

Rey blames the early hour, and her lack of tea on her confusion and surprise. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you happy here?” Lord Solo repeats. His eyes aren’t on hers, not yet. Instead he is looking down at a novel. But for just a moment, just a breath, she sees his gaze flicker to her before returning to whatever page he’s reading. She thinks back, and recalls that he hasn’t turned it in quite some time.

“I would say so, yes.”

“You would say so.”

“I’m certainly happier than I was before,” she promises. She reaches for the cream and putting just a dash into her Earl Grey before spooning a bit of sugar into the steaming, golden-brown liquid, the clouds of milk swirling like silk curtains through it. “I am clothed, I am fed, I have a roof over my head that doesn’t leak, and I certainly have access to more leisurely activities than I have ever before in my life.”

“But you could be happier?” Lord Solo presses, abandoning his book on his lap in favor of looking at her across the small mahogany table. It’s become their routine to eat breakfast together at this table, with its gorgeous carving all around the edge and mother of pearl inlays. What once was obscenely rich and almost opulent to her has now become normal and beautiful. She supposes the same has happened to many things at Renberly.

“I could,” Rey confesses as she stirs her tea. “I will be significantly happier once we are wed and there is no doubt of our relation, or your choice. You have reassured me of it, but you need to reassure others. And perhaps will need to for years to come.”

“I am well aware,” Lord Solo replies. She can see the tension in his shoulders has eased a bit, now that she has confessed just what exactly would make her the happiest woman in the world. “There is nothing I could offer you to make you happier?”

“No,” Rey replies honestly. “It will come with time. And with getting to know those who share your status, and learning whether it is wise to befriend them, or avoid them.”

“I wish that I could ease your fears, but I know quite well that words do little in such situations,” he says. His voice has lowered as he reaches for his own cup of tea, looking back down to his book, his curiosity and worry seemingly satisfied for the moment. “I can only hope that they do not affect your decision.”

“I hope not either.” Her voice softens as well as she watches her husband-to-be, examining the gentle wave of his hair in the early morning sun, how small the porcelain and painted tea cup looks in his hand, how focused his gaze is on his book despite the fact she’s entirely sure he’s focused on the conversation instead. “But I ask your forgiveness if I cannot promise that it will not affect it.”

“I see no reason for forgiveness,” he says. “I understand.”

“Thank you.”

“There is no need.”

It was so rare, in her life before Renberly, that she was spoken to with such warmth. It happened occasionally in town. Near holidays, or special occasions like weddings or the birth of children. When happiness radiated from those she spoke to. Or when she surprised Mrs. Thompson with some wildflowers after her husband passed, or when she helped clean up a bag of spilled flour for Mrs. Marston, the baker’s wife.

To receive that warmth before, she must have done something kind. Something to help someone else, something worth her time or her coin.

Now, she receives it from the lord without even lifting a finger, it seems.

She smiles a little bit, the expression going unnoticed by her husband-to-be, and then takes a sip of her tea.

✥

The manor is the quietest in the afternoon.

Morning is when chores are done. When sheets are washed, when napkins are pressed, the few animals they have fed, when flowers are gathered for the table, when meal preparation begins. Bannisters are polished, windowsills are wiped, clocks are set. Renberly is bustling with activity through dawn until noon, and then things still slightly.

This is when Rey prefers to explore.

Even though she has lived here for a month, there are still so many rooms she has yet to discover. She knows the yellow drawing room, because it’s where herself and Lord Solo have breakfast. She knows her own rooms, of course. She knows the private dining room, where they have dinner, and the formal dining room, where they dined with Lady Rose, Lady Kaydel, Lord Finn, and Mr. Dameron. She’s been in the library only a handful of times, but hasn’t truly explored there, and so that is her focus today.

The room is painted the same pale blue as a rare summer’s morning. That beautiful, soft calming color that comes with a light, warm breeze and gentle sunshine. Though there is no sunshine in the library, there is that same warmth in all the beautiful dark wood and leather that surrounds her.

It’s not the largest room in Renberly. It’s smaller than the formal dining room, and the ballroom. But it is still of decent size, with tall windows overlooking the garden. She can see the hedge maze and the fountain in the middle, the rose bushes and several benches lit by the afternoon sun. It’s an uncommon day of warmth and brightness, but she much prefers to sit in and observe, today.

She only had a handful of books when she lived in Budrow. She owned a book of poems, a small canvas-bound book of deep blue that was wearing down to a dull cornflower on the edges. A splurge one winter when she wanted to read of flowers and green trees and walking through the fields. A romantic thing sat on her shelf the past couple of years, bound in soft leather and the prettiest book she owned. Lent to her by Mrs. Marston who insisted she just had to read the gorgeous tale of two forbidden lovers from enemy families who came together at the end. When Rey had tried to return it, Mrs. Marston had refused, flustered and a bit embarrassed that she’d owned the thing in the first place.

The other three were old books of Plutt's, books of farming and money-counting and landowning and of little interest to her. She’ll even admit she’s used the pages for tinder on the coldest nights in winter, when the fire just wouldn’t come to life. Pages about taxes she was too poor to pay.

Not anymore.

The afternoon sunlight streams through the large windows of the library, past the deep blue velvet curtains and illuminating the shelves and shelves of leather bound books. Their titles mean nothing to her, the authors unfamiliar. But still she walks along, a soft embroidered shawl wrapped around her shoulders as she attempts to find something of interest.

There’s a collection of fairytales, on a shelf a little higher than her eye line, bound in emerald green and thick enough that it holds multiple stories, but not thin enough to be so juvenile. She takes it down, and finds the window seat.

The cushion is embroidered. Its masterful work, truly, little vines and flowers, bluebells and lily of the valley and lavender and roses curling up the sides. It’s soft, sinking as she climbs onto it, curled up and pleased with her find as she strokes the smooth leather and marvels at the moment.

“Would you like tea, my lady?”

She doesn’t know the names of all the house yet. She thinks that this man’s name is Mason. “Yes, please, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all, my lady.”

Rey will never get used to the sight of someone bowing to her. It’s strange, and still makes her stomach flip uncomfortably. But within a few moments there is a cart by her side, with a lovely pot of tea and even some little treats and cakes, should she get a bit peckish. She doesn’t wish to get any oil or sugar on the delicate pages of the book, though, so she refrains for now.

Of all of the stories in the book, there’s only one that’s familiar to her. An old story of a girl falling in love with a beast. The version isn’t quite the one she remembers, then again the one she remembers came from her mother’s lips instead of a book. There are definitely changes, but she still enjoys the story.

The single story out of so many in this book, in this room.

She just has to laugh. She has to laugh at the idea of herself sitting in a room filled with so many books. So many books that cost a pretty penny and, if sold again, could buy her a fine house. Nothing as fine as Renberly, no, but a fine house nonetheless. And yet instead she’s surrounded by leather and paper and ink and it’s so magnificent it’s almost ridiculous. No, it is ridiculous, and so she laughs.

She’s fairly sure that the servants lingering to tend to her should she need them think she’s insane as she just giggles and looks out towards the gardens, the emerald green shrubs and hedges almost glowing in the afternoon sun, with little spots of pink and red for the roses.

“May I ask what has you so amused?”

“Just the idea of it,” Rey admits as Lord Solo steps closer. “Sitting in a room worth about three times my former life, if not more.”

“I would argue that is most rooms,” he replies, not unkindly. He’s merely stating a fact, and he’s right.

“That is true,” she admits. “But somehow it’s different in here. To see so many books, when I had so few for so long…”

“I regret to tell you that not all of them are worth your time. Some of them are quite boring.”

“How can they be boring?” she asks. “They hold information I don’t know yet, therefore they’re exciting.”

His teeth are crooked, just a little. She quite likes it, really. It gives his smile a bit of warmth, and a charming quality as he directs it towards her. It’s not an out-right grin, but it’s still a smile as he regards her. “I must confess, every day you give me another reason that confirms I have made the right choice.”

“I am glad,” she confesses in return. “It would be horrid to have extended such an offer and come to loathe me instead. Though I do not doubt your honor and pride and know you would follow through anyway, I am glad being with me is not torture.”

“On the contrary, I sought you out because I missed your company.”

“Shall we move to the chairs?”

“No, no, let me just…”

To see such a large man try to fold himself onto the window seat without disturbing her makes her giddy, grinning as he stands there for a moment, trying to figure out how such a feat would happen. She moves her legs down from the cushion, giving him room to sit, and she can practically feel the relief coming from him as he takes the space her feet once were.

“You are happy here, yes?” he asks.

“I daresay you are going to ask me that as often as I ask you if you are sure of your decision to marry me,” Rey teases, slipping a thin silk ribbon between the pages of the book and intending on taking it to her rooms to read before bed. “Yes, I am quite happy, and will only be happier once there is no denial of our relationship or union.”

“I must warn you, even after the wedding, there will be those who speak ill of it, who do not understand.”

“I understand. But for me, you will have confirmed your decision, and there will be no question of your intent, and that is what will relieve me.”

Lord Solo nods, before he looks out to the garden. His profile is strong and handsome. His nose a bit big, yes, as well as his ears, but his lips are plush, his cheekbones high and pretty, his jaw strong. He really is a beautiful man, and not for the first time she’s left breathless at her luck. That such a fine man, a kind man, a handsome man, a rich man, would see some value in her at all.

“May I ask what you are thinking?” he asks.

“That you are beautiful, my lord,” Rey confesses truthfully. A good marriage, a good and loving relationship comes from being honest, or so she’s heard, and she has no intent on being otherwise. “And that I am lucky to look upon you for the rest of my days.”

Oh, but he turns red almost immediately. It starts at his cheeks, a delicate flush that suggests being too close to a fire, or out in the sun too long. And then it spreads. It spreads down his jaw, down his neck, and she can see beneath the waves of his hair that his ears are flaming as well. He turns away for a moment, and she leans in, smiling softly to follow his gaze.

“I’m being truthful,” she reassures him. “I am lucky in many ways with you.”

“And I you,” he replies.

There’s that warmth she’s become so familiar with. The one that blossoms in her chest when he looks at her, when he speaks, when he compliments her on something. She stares at him for a moment, before she leans in and slots her lips against his.

That she has kissed him has apparently startled him, because he’s still beneath her lips. She keeps hers against his for just a moment more before pulling back, her heart sinking as she wonders if she did something wrong. She’s only kissed a handful of times before, and him only once. “I—” she starts, but then there is a hand on her chin and she’s being pulled back in.

His lips are warm, so warm. And soft. And if this is what kissing is like, she thinks she might be addicted to it. Addicted to the feeling of his hand upon her cheek, his thumb stroking her skin, circling and warming it. He smells of rich tea and ink. He keeps kissing her until there is no air left to breathe, and even then he does not part from her. Instead he rests his brow against hers, the two of them sharing breath for a moment before Rey becomes impatient and eager and leans in for another.

Yes, she is very much getting addicted to this, she thinks as she kisses him over and over and over again. To the feeling of the sun streaming through the window, warming her skin and making the heat of being with him seem all the hotter. Of the feeling of his hand on her cheek and his other hand on hers, kind and stroking circles into both. Of tasting him, the tea he must have had before coming to seek her out. It’s all lovely and comforting and she cannot get enough.

But eventually they stop, both breathless. Rey laughs, leaning against him, her brow touching his as he moves to hold her hands instead. The book is forgotten on her lap, and she can’t even remember the story she just read as they sit together.

“I regret that I have some work to do,” he says, his voice low and a bit rougher than it was before. “I came only to see that you were enjoying yourself.”

“I cannot think of any way I could enjoy myself more,” Rey teases, grinning at him as he squeezes her fingers.

Oh, but to see him flush, to figure out what she can say to make such color come to his cheeks will be her new favorite form of entertainment, she thinks. Better than reading, better than cards, than any parlor game she can think of. He flushes _brilliantly_ at her comment, before he’s kissing her once more. It’s chaste and sweet, and she smiles at it before watching him and his broad back leave the library, and leave her to her reading.

How he expects her to focus on the words before her and not the swollen nature of her lips, she’s unsure.

✥

The fears still linger, as she’s sure they will until they are wed. And even then they will still linger, though they will be less.

Lady Rose was kind enough to leave a few pieces of parchment, with notes written upon them. There are names. There are descriptions. Some perhaps inappropriate, which is why she keeps the pages hidden in another book in her bedside table, but she will never forget that Mrs. Thompson has very fine … assets, and ones she likes to adorn with many jewels, courtesy of Mr. Thompson.

At the very least, it works to remember.

It does little to ease her anxiety as the first social event comes fast approaching, though. Her gown is already made, a pretty thing of cranberry silk. The garnets have already arrived, a simple but sparkling necklace in a fine velvet case in her wardrobe. She has read Lady Rose’s notes and advices over and over and over again to the point that she could write them on more parchment if she is asked to.

But despite all the preparation, it does little to soothe the heaviness in her heart as she considers all she must present, all she must be.

Kind words and kisses help, yes, but they are a balm to a stinging wound. Temporary, until the time comes that such a wound is healed.

And that will not be until June, if not after.

Rey sighs, rubbing her eyes and loathing the next two days before the dinner, and all the weight they will press upon her.

“Good night, Miss Jackson.”

She can still feel his kiss to her brow, and finds a bit of comfort in it as she extinguishes her candle in favor of what she hopes (but doubts) will be restful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoyed this chapter, please tell me! Reading comments gives me the same joy as a good cup of tea without all the caffeine and sugar!


	14. XIV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter this time, but I truly love just writing the small moments between them, and wanted to do the party just as one instead of breaking it up. Hopefully it's a little sweet and indulgent, and I'll be able to get to the good, dramatic stuff soon ;) I have some witty lines prepared...
> 
> Thank you so much for the support as always! I love you all and am so glad you're liking this little indulgent fic of mine.

In the days leading up to the dinner party, there is a change in the woman he chose to become his wife.

He should like to say he’s used to her, given that they have spent almost every day together since their engagement. Of course, he has worked and hunted and traveled a few of those days, for business or for pleasure, and returned to see her silhouette in the window to the main hall. Waiting for him, to welcome him home.

He is used to her sharp tongue, her clever wit, the way her eyes crinkle when she smiles and the curl of her hazelnut hair.

She’s smiled less, recently, and her tongue has not lashed as often or as sharply as it usually does.

“Are you well?”

Miss Jackson looks up from the book on her lap, her eyes finding his. “Yes, sir?” she asks, confused and frowning as she regards him. “Do I not look well?”

“No,” he replies, before he catches himself. “That is to say, you look as wonderful as always, I simply …” God help him. “You have not been acting yourself. I was wondering if it was something I had done, or if it is merely the anticipation of this week’s dinner party.”

“Forgive me,” she says, her voice low, almost a groan. “I must ask, is it truly so apparent?”

“Only to the man who has spent the past few weeks in your company almost daily. I’m sure if you were to ask any of my men or maids, they would answer the same.”

“I don’t mean to be the subject of worry or concern, truly.”

“If the thought of attending such an event is causing you such distress, then I will feign an illness and we do not have to go,” he promises.

“No!”

It’s said so quickly, so immediately, and with such force that he looks at his wife-to-be, startled. It is with disappointment that he watches her almost retreat into herself afterwards, her gaze lowering and her grip tightening on the small leather-bound tome in her hands.

“If we are to be wed, I am expected to not only attend such occasions, but host them,” she explains. “To delay the inevitable is unwise, and will only prolong such anxiety and foolish fear.”

“Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, I am in awe of your perspective and brilliance,” he says, hoping beyond hope such a compliment will ease her mind, and maybe perhaps flush her cheeks. He has no confirmation of the first, but he does see some pink at the tops of her cheeks, her freckles becoming more prominent as she returns to reading. “I look forward to introducing you.”

“As I look forward to meeting your acquaintances.”

“There is no need to lie to me, Miss Jackson.”

This time she smiles over her book, cheeks still flushed and pretty, and not for the first time even just that morning, he wonders why he did not put out an advertisement for his want of a wife sooner.

✥

Petty things like letters to bare acquaintances are merely methods of filling time until the dinner party. He’d tried to read earlier, but found that his eyes lingered on the same line more often than he would have liked. Walking helped slightly, but then the skies decided to open. He can still hear the rain on the windows behind him, the day grey and dreary and unfortunately a poor distraction from his nerves.

Of course, his are not so great as Miss Jackson’s. But there are questions he will be asked, and answers he must form. He hopes that he thinks of more than he will need to say.

Perhaps it is odd, for him to wish to be in the company of the woman he has chosen to be his wife so often. He has heard the older men laugh and joke about hunting for another week, to insist they must catch more so as to stay away from their homes, and their wives.

But he has no wish to hunt, especially not so long as the men in his acquaintance. To go two weeks without seeing such sweetness that is Miss Jackson would be akin to torture.

“There is still time, if you wish. To learn. A poem, a song, perhaps a bit of music, something simple.”

“I have no wish to perform more than I already must, sir.” She doesn’t even look up from the book she’s still reading, the same one from breakfast. “And I have no wish to humiliate myself in front of those you respect, nor would I wish such humiliation upon you.”

“I would argue that such a performance would sooner suggest bravery than foolishness, but I understand your concern, and will not push the matter further,” he replies as he sets his quill down and rubs at his hand.

It’s only when he glances up at her does he realize that Miss Jackson has been watching him for what must have been several moments. “Is something the matter, Miss Jackson?”

“Hardly a matter of concern,” she says. “But perhaps a matter of confusion. Not a day goes by when I wonder what on earth the women of your acquaintance have done that you have refused such proposals and attention. For I cannot imagine that they could find a man more fitting to be a husband.”

“I find conversation difficult,” he explains. “Especially in the company of many. I much prefer smaller gatherings over large ones, as I do not like to raise my voice above music or laughter or the conversation of others. To be in your company is suitable enough for me.”

“A fine compliment. I thank you, sir.”

“I thank you for your company.”

There’s that smile he so adores. The one where he can see the corners of her eyes crinkle, the one where her teeth show instead of the demure one he so often sees in the company of others. He’s blinded by her brilliance, her beauty, and reminded once more of why he chose her over the women he’s spoken with, danced with, played cards with and entertained for years.

✥

“It is not too late to feign illness.”

“I would argue that it is, sir.”

For as lovely as colors look against her fair skin, he finds he quite enjoys the look of delicate ivory. Like the sweetened cream, the garnets around her neck and hanging from her ears deep red like the strawberries at the end of summer. A beautiful dessert, just as sweet and charming in its simplicity.

She embroidered her navy reticule herself, lily of the valley and twining vines adorning the front in ivory thread. He’s seen her working on it the past few weeks, saw her show her progress to Lady Kaydel and Lady Rose, and overheard their suggestions. The final product is perhaps not as delicate or skilled as the projects of some of the other ladies, but then again, he is unsure as to whether they completed such crafts themselves, or whether they paid the coin simply to have the finest in the room.

He’d given her pearl hair pins, and they glow in the low lantern light as he extends his hand to her to assist her into the carriage. Her hand grips his just a bit tighter than he is used to, and he watches as the other trembles as she settles into her seat. He sits across from her, the night air cool and sweet after the afternoon’s rain.

“You look splendid, Miss Jackson.”

“It is thanks to your purse, Lord Solo,” she confesses. The carriage lurches forward slightly, and he reaches to support her should she fall forward. But she’s become used to the feeling, apparently, and holds her own well. She rights herself and looks out the window as they leave Renberly behind in favor of the Turners’ manor, some few miles away. “There is no doubt that such an appearance could not have been accomplished without your generosity.”

“Then I will thank myself for the privilege of looking upon you tonight.”

There’s a smile. It’s not the wide, beautiful one he is so fond of, but he cannot blame her for the lack of such a grin, especially as they move closer and closer to what she has been dreading for so long. But he shall take even the slightest smile, watching as her hands twist and tangle together, fingers plucking at the soft white leather of her gloves.

“Lady Kaydel and Lady Rose will be there, am I correct?”

“Yes. As well as Lord Cavalier and Mr. Dameron.”

“Perhaps I shall be saved, then,” she says teasingly. “I can dance with you, and when my feet ache I will watch Lady Kaydel play cards with Mr. Dameron.”

“Regretfully, Lady Kaydel has no wish to be the cause of such humiliation towards Mr. Dameron,” he replies, matching his wife-to-be’s tone of mirth. “Though I would bet a few pounds on her and Lady Rose perhaps performing a duet.”

“Of what instruments?”

“Lady Rose enjoys singing, and Lady Kaydel plays both the flute and piano forte.”

“Then I look forward to listening.”

“As do I.”

“They did not perform while they were with us?”

“Lady Kaydel so rarely gets to indulge in playing cards in familiar and comfortable company,” Ben explains, his fondness for the young woman warming his tone of voice slightly. “I thought her playing entertainment enough, and neglected to ask if she would indulge us.”

“Oh, certainly entertainment enough,” Miss Jackson agrees, and there it is once more. There is that smile he so enjoys. He hopes beyond hope he will see it more than just in the carriage. He hopes beyond hope that she will smile in such a way at the party, and that it will have as charming an effect on those attending as it did on him.

One day he shall tell her.

But not tonight, for he can’t find the words that would bring such beauty justice.

✥

“Miss Jackson!”

It’s wonderful, truly, to see the way his wife-to-be’s shoulders lose some of their tension the moment she hears Lady Rose call out to her. He had his hopes for a friendship to emerge from the visit, but he could not have expected it to work out so well. And he will be forever grateful that it did, he thinks, as Lady Rose approaches and offers her hands. Miss Jackson reaches forward to take them, clinging almost desperately as she forces a smile in greeting.

“You will do wonderfully,” Lady Rose promises her.

“Perhaps she will listen to you when you say such things, as she has no desire to listen to me,” Ben teases as he steps forward and bows. “Lady Tico.”

“Lord Solo.” A curtsy, fluid and elegant. Miss Jackson quickly follows, her curtsy not so smooth as Lady Rose’s, but acceptable, especially for someone who has not had a half lifetime of practice.

“It is not too late,” he mutters.

“Not too late for what?” Lady Rose asks.

“Lord Solo is insistent upon feigning an illness should I feel any discomfort or hesitation,” Miss Jackson explains. She looks over her shoulder at him, and she humors him with a look of playful exasperation. It is difficult not to smile in return, especially when he thinks about receiving such a look for the rest of his days. “I have declined him.”

“You are thinking only of yourself,” Ben replies. “Perhaps it is I who has no wish to be here.”

“Things are different, now,” Lady Rose promises. “You have each other.”

“That we do,” he agrees, before he offers his arm to his wife-to-be. Miss Jackson indulges him, holding tight as they walk up the marble steps of the Turner residence. It’s not nearly so grand as Renberly, but still, Miss Jackson looks up into the lit windows and warm lanterns as they approach the front door.

“The offer stands, and will continue to for the rest of the night,” he mutters, low enough and close enough for only her to hear as the footmen go to open the door.

“I thank you, sir,” she whispers in return. It’s accompanied by a squeeze to his arm, reassuring him that she means as she says, and he nods.

As she braces herself, he does the same, already expecting judgment and inquiries, and not caring about them in the slightest. After all, he has a beautiful woman on his arm who has agreed to be his wife.

He cares for little else.


	15. XV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them. I love the Knights of Ren. I am so excited for all of them, you have no idea.   
> As handsome as all of their stunt actors are, I went kind of out on a limb and created my own characters based on the descriptions of the knights themselves. I really love all of them, and can't wait for you to meet them! I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. 
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience - the holidays were a little crazy, and it's hard to write in different spaces. I hope you enjoy!

There were fine houses in Budrow. Nothing so grand as Renberly, to be sure, but fine enough.

She had the privilege of entering them a handful of times, if only to make the odd delivery to gain a pound or two. Taking a goose to the Garners, a bouquet of flowers to the grieving Mrs. Lucas. She’s stepped inside a handful and seen the bits of fashion and influence from the cities, those in the small town wanting to be with the times but not wanting to spend more than they have or seem too pretentious or flashy.

Rey has seen fine houses - has been living in one for the past two months. But she has never seen a fine house set up for a ball.

For a moment, the air is knocked from her lungs as her husband-to-be guides her up the steps. Already she can hear the chatter of those inside, the laughter. Her hand tightens on Lord Solo’s arm, and he reaches to squeeze her fingers through the soft leather of her glove.

“Solo!”

They’ve barely passed the threshold of the house when someone calls out for him.

She’s not given a chance to look around before a man is coming up to them, grinning from ear to ear. He’s a bit shorter than her, his straight dark brown hair sticking up in all directions like it’s never seen a comb. It’s apparent he’s seen the sun, and often, because his skin is golden brown and glowing. He approaches and gives a short little bow, still grinning with all the brightness of the sun he evidently loves so much. He’s dressed plainly, no embellishment or embroidery to be seen, which makes his smile and hair all the more startling.

“Miss Jackson, may I introduce Mr. Charles Banfield,” Lord Solo says, gesturing to the man.

“The pleasure is mine, I insist,” he replies.

It’s difficult to accomplish an impeccable curtsy when one is completely and utterly overwhelmed, but Rey hopes that hers didn’t come off as too wobbling and slight. “It’s wonderful to meet you.”

“One of the Knights of Renberly,” her husband-to-be explains.

“It’s been too long since we’ve been together,” Charles says. If there wasn’t a great deal of visible warmth and excitement behind his grin, it may be unnerving. But Rey smiles in return, watching as Lord Solo’s dark eyebrows raise ever so slightly.

“Are the rest of the men here?”

“Gale is in London with business, I’m afraid. And Hunt is at sea, but shall be returning this month. I do believe I saw Reid, Finch, and Clark around here somewhere.” Charles replies. “We shall have to gather all together, and soon. There is coin to be exchanged! You’re finally taking a wife!”

He says it perhaps a bit too loudly for proper company, but the hum of conversation around them keeps his voice from traveling too far.

“Indeed I am,” Lord Solo says with such firmness and finality that Rey looks up at him, seeing his face entirely serious. “For I have finally found a woman I wish to spend the rest of my days with.”

“I assume this is Miss Jackson.”

A new voice comes from her left, and Rey turns her head to see a man walking towards them. Like Mr. Banfield, he is dressed plainly. Unlike Mr. Banfield, there is a properness to him and a stiffness that Rey expects more from a man of his status, that is assuming his is equivalent to the lord’s standing beside her. His coloring is so pale he looks almost ill, with white blond hair and porcelain skin, eyes a cold blue and focused on her as he approaches them. The cane he uses is a deep, dark wood, and when he moves closer, Rey can see contrasting ivory carvings pressed into it. It's the only thing of decor and frill that he has, and she thinks perhaps it was on purpose so as to bring attention to the beautiful piece.

“Miss Jackson, Mr. Victor Clark,” Lord Solo introduces.

“A pleasure,” Rey promises, curtsying once more.

“Indeed,” Victor replies. “A pleasure to meet the poor woman who has ensnared our friend so.”

It’s not said with malice. But it is said with all of the flatness that comes with a statement of truth, and Rey lifts her chin slightly, the sick feeling in her stomach increasing and making her throat tight.

“Do you dance, Miss Jackson?” Charles asks.

“I enjoy it,” Rey replies. “I cannot say with honesty that I am a good dancer, but I do enjoy it.”

“Then, if it so suits you, and of course after you dance with Solo, could I dance with you second?”

“I would be honored,” Rey replies, smiling as the short man grins in return.

“I do believe we should move to the ballroom,” Lord Solo mutters. “Instead of standing in the foyer.”

“I agree,” Victor says.

She can recall very little of the fairytales of her childhood. But is she were to imagine one of the palaces in such stories, the Turners house would fit quite well. Though not so large as a palace, it has all the grandeur and mirth that should come from one, she thinks. With people laughing and drinking and dancing, music coming from the ballroom and candles everywhere, glittering and flickering with every brush of a lord or lady moving past.

She’s never been surrounded by so many people in her life. There were small gatherings during the holidays, but it was rare she was invited to many. A handful over the years, when the winters were particularly cold and Mrs. Banning thought her too slender to make it through the season. Even then, it was only ten people.

Now, the laughter and conversation of what must be half a hundred people surrounds her, and her chest tightens as she looks around. Already there are eyes finding her, lips moving and making words she cannot hear. Rey averts her eyes, looking instead for Lady Rose who had disappeared into the crowd somewhere.

“Solo, it’s been too long, my friend!”

There were those in Budrow who decorated themselves. A handful of ladies and men who sought to enrich and embellish themselves so as to appear more important and more wealthy than they truly are. The man who walks towards them has the same sorts of embellishments, and the same amount, as those fools, but instead of looking like a fool himself, Rey swears she’s looking at a man of royal fairytale as he approaches them.

“Reid,” Lord Solo greets. “Indeed it has been.”

A tall man of Chinese descent, Mr. Reid is perhaps one of the most beautiful beings Rey’s ever seen. His long, sleek black hair is pulled into a tail behind his head, his smile bright as he approaches. His attire is the complete opposite of Mr. Clark’s and Mr. Banfield’s. His waistcoat is embroidered mustard-yellow silk, the swirling, beautiful patterns influenced by the clothes of his heritage. Save for perhaps a few ladies who spent a good bit of coin on their gowns, Rey thinks he has the most gorgeous attire in the entire room. His cravat matches, a deep emerald green with silk thread of that same mustard-yellow. It just peeks from beneath the black of his coat as he extends his hands to take hers, squeezing her fingers in greeting.

“And this must be Miss Jackson,” he says, his voice smooth and low as he bows towards her. She curtsies as best as she can with her hands still held, his hands warm through her gloves. “You are radiant, my dear.”

“I must confess, I find that difficult to believe, sir,” Rey confesses, her nervous forcing her into honesty. “I do believe I must look quite ill, for I very much feel it in the company of those I’ve never met.”

“If you wish to leave, I will make it so,” Lord Solo mutters, his hand coming to her lower back and pressing gently. A reminder. A promise.

“I do believe the time for making an excusable exit has passed,” Rey replies. She turns her head, seeing her husband-to-be standing behind her and looking down with worried eyes and a furrowed brow.

“Lord Solo.”

This time, it’s a female voice that calls out. Rey turns to see a woman approaching, perhaps in her early forties. A young girl follows her, looking to be the same age as Rey herself at 19, perhaps a year or two younger. It’s evident that whoever this woman is, she takes great care to follow the current fashion. Small though they may be, her jewels glitter in the candlelight.

“Miss Jackson, may I introduce Mrs. Georgina Cole,” Lord Solo offers. “And her daughter, Miss Caroline Cole.”

“A pleasure to meet you,” Rey says, taking great care to make this curtsy impeccable, and perhaps a bit lower than her previous. She can feel the weight of the woman’s deep brown eyes on her, her gaze not holding the warmth that Mr. Banfield’s or Mr. Reid’s had.

“I’ve heard that you have been back in Renberly for half a year,” Mrs. Cole says. Rey watches her fan flutter with calculated, even movements. Miss Cole says nothing. Though she’s dressed as fashionably as her mother, she’s dressed more simply. Her necklace doesn’t have the same jewels, only a single bit of bright red coral.

“That is true, yes.”

“And that you found Miss Jackson through an advertisement in the paper.”

There it is, Rey thinks. Though Mrs. Cole’s voice had been delicately light and almost sweet at first, there is a weight to the statement. A heavy, cold one that has Rey tensing, wishing that she had a fan or something to occupy her hands like the woman in front of her.

“That is also true, yes,” Lord Solo replies. He offers nothing else. No defense, no explanation. He merely says it is true, and leaves it at that. Rey’s not entirely sure whether she’d prefer one or the other.

“I see.” The woman’s tone is sharp. “I do hope we could have a more private gathering soon, perhaps at Renberly. It has been too long since I’ve seen your galleries.”

“I will leave that decision to the future Lady Solo,” Lord Solo replies.

It takes a moment for Rey to respond, feeling as though her breath has entirely left her chest. “I agree, yes, the galleries are lovely,” she says, before she remembers that that was not what she was asked. Her cheeks flush slightly as she tries to form an appropriate response, finding her tongue barren of words before she finally says, “We would much enjoy your company, however I do wish to wait until after our wedding. I am not yet so familiar with Renberly to make a fine hostess.”

It’s a lie, yes. She knows Renberly well by now, knows its halls in the bright light of a sunny day and the dull grey of a storming one. She knows the shadows the statues make as silver moonlight pours through the windows, her feet aching after yet another sleepless night of wandering with her heart refusing to calm itself of anxieties.

But it’s a necessary one.

“And when is the wedding?” Mrs. Cole asks.

“June,” Lord Solo replies. “My mother will be arriving next week, and is eager to assist in planning it. It will be a quiet affair.”

It is apparent that that is not the answer Mrs. Cole wanted, because her lips thin, and she merely nods before turning to her daughter. “Come, Caroline.”

“I quite like your necklace, Miss Cole,” Rey says before they can leave entirely.

The poor girl finally meets her gaze, and Rey notices her eyes are not the same color as her mother’s. She must take more after her father, for they are green and brighten as she looks up at Rey. “Thank you, my lady.”

Rey can see Mrs. Cole’s expression darken even further at her daughter’s address, and she starts to move away. Rey does her best to offer a smile to the girl before she follows her mother like a duckling.

“I don’t believe that she strays more than a handful of paces from her mother,” Lord Solo mutters under his breath. “I doubt she is allowed to. Mrs. Cole is determined that she find a suitable match, preferably one with a title.”

“May I presume her coldness towards me was because you are no longer eligible?” Rey asks.

“It would be a fine assumption,” Lord Solo says.

“Then it would be another fine assumption to assume that she is not the only mother who loathes me.”

“I doubt that one can loathe someone they’ve never met, but I cannot deny it entirely.”

“You are very eager to provide comfort and reassurance,” Rey says, her tone sarcastic as she looks up to her fiancé.

His hand finds hers and tightens gently, his thumb rubbing along the back. “Regardless of their feelings about you, I have made mine very clear, and I hope that you find more weight in them than the feelings of women who you will meet perhaps a handful of times during our entire marriage,” he mumbles.

“I do,” Rey replies. “I merely want to prepare myself for vitriol should it come.”

“I knew I was marrying a wise woman.”

She can’t help but smile at that as they finally walk into the ballroom.

Renberly has a grand ballroom, with more beautiful marble than she’s ever seen before. She’s wandered through it a handful of times when she wished to be alone with her thoughts, the echoing of her footsteps always seeming thunderous no matter how lightly she may step or how soft the soles of her leather slippers. No doubt one day, and one day soon, she will see it as lively as this ballroom.

The laughter around her is almost deafening. But she has never seen so much joy. There are older couples sitting on the side, conversing with their companions and watching the younger dance. Already she can see dancing, young men and women stepping to a waltz.

She’s never seen so much happiness in her entire life.

“Will you dance with me, Miss Jackson?” Lord Solo asks. “It would be appropriate, and it would inform everyone of our engagement if we were to dance often.”

“Then let us dance until our feet ache,” Rey replies.

Out of the corner of her eye, she can see people bowing and curtsying as they walk towards the far end of the ballroom. There are whispers, and she hears her name and ‘Solo’ more than a few times. ‘Advertisement’ is also thrown out there, and she has to bite her tongue to keep from tasting the bitterness of bile.

Lord Solo’s hand squeezes hers on his arm as they approach, the current song almost coming to an end. She recognizes this dance. It should be over soon, she thinks, as her hand comes to rest on top of his.

“There are so many people watching,” she mutters under her breath.

“Yes,” Lord Solo replies. “But you are prepared. Lady Rose taught you well.”

“There is dancing in the company of those I consider friends, and then there is dancing in front of strangers who already have an opinion of me, presumably negative,” Rey insists as the music slowly starts to end, the last few notes finishing and clapping replacing the lack of tune. “I fear my body will know the difference.”

Lord Solo says nothing of reassurance, but instead guides her out towards the dance floor. There are smiling couples, and shy ones, she notices, a few of them moving off to the side with flushed cheeks to continue their conversation. But as the music resumes, she takes her place across from her husband-to-be, and counts the steps in her head.

Perhaps it will become more enjoyable when she knows the dances more. At the very least, she hopes, because she can barely hear the music over the rushing of her own heartbeat in her ears. She offers smiles and nods to those dancing with them, ignoring as best she can some of the judgemental or incredulous looks that she is given. When she comes back to Lord Solo and raises her hand to mirror his, she’s grateful for the moment of reprieve, breathing more easily when she can forget the room around them and focus only on him. It doesn’t happen as often as she’d like with this dance, but she savors the moments it does.

They continue into the next, remaining together so as to imply that they are indeed engaged to be married. She can see a tall man offer his hand to Lady Kaydel who was sitting on the sidelines, his skin darker than Finn’s and hair long in locs, pulled back behind him with a gorgeous burgundy ribbon.

“Who is the man dancing with Lady Kaydel?” she asks once she can get close to her husband-to-be.

“That is Lord Ulysses Finch,” Lord Solo explains. “The only other man in the knights of Renberly with a title. His father’s a wealthy merchant.”

“He’s very handsome,” Rey remarks, watching him smile as he leads Lady Kaydel out onto the floor. Lady Kaydel is not particularly tall, but next to him she looks petite, almost like a doll as he holds his hand up for hers to press against it. “Is he interested in Lady Kaydel?”

“No, but Mr. Augustus Gale is. You will meet him soon enough. He’s admired her for years, but has yet to ask her to do anything more than dance one dance and perhaps take a walk around the room.”

“Is she interested in him?”

“Of that I do not know.”

Rey hums, watching the two beautiful people dance. “Is Mr. Finch interested in anyone?”

“Not to my knowledge, but then again it’s been years since we had such a conversation. All of our letters are more to do with business and the health of families than anything else. Such talk is usually best had in person.”

“We will have to have them all over,” she promises. “Invite all the Knights of Renberly to sit at the round table once more.” It’s said with a grin as she turns in his arms. For all of the fear that she felt earlier, she finds herself comfortable with him. Even, perhaps, having fun as the music livens and picks up pace, and she sees some of the other women picking up their feet to skip to it. She joins them, laughing as his hand finds her waist once more, spinning her around before letting her spin with someone else.

It takes a round or two before she passes hands with Mr. Ulysses Finch, who must have heard of her, for he smiles and says, “Miss Jackson,” in a warm, low voice.

“Mr. Finch,” Rey replies breathlessly.

“You are as beautiful as Solo said.”

And then he’s gone, taking the hand of a slender redhead with olive green ribbons woven through her curls.

Rey finds herself in her lord’s arms once more, looking up at him as they step together. “I thought you said such topics were not suitable for letters.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Mr. Finch implied you called me beautiful in a letter.”

“I beg to differ. I say such blatant facts about the woman I am to marry are quite suitable in letters. It is speculation that is not. Your looks are not for speculating, they are certain.”

The music comes to an end, and she turns, looking up at the lord with his hand upon her waist. Her heartbeat is wild, the warmth of his hand through her gown making her pulse quicken before she pulls away. “Forgive me, I … a drink?”

“Yes, of course,” he mutters. “I’ll fetch one.”

“I don’t—” she starts, but he’s disappeared into the crowd before she can protest him leaving her.

In a sea of people, she suddenly feels adrift, scanning the crowd for any familiar face, even as new as they may be. There are none to be found. She moves desperately, looking for Lady Rose or Lady Kaydel, but the laughter overwhelms her, and between their dancing and the amount of people around her, she feels hot.

“Miss Jackson.”

“Yes?” Rey breathes, turning to find herself facing an older woman. The lines on her face suggest a lifetime of wisdom, but she is almost glaring at Rey. Immediately she feels her heart sink and her mouth grow dry, and she quickly curtsies, fearing that perhaps she’s terribly too late for it.

The older woman tilts her chin up, thin lips pursed. “So you are the woman Lord Solo has chosen.”

“Yes, my lady, I am,” Rey replies.

She is by no means surprised by the woman, or her nature of dislike. Indeed, she’s been preparing for this sort of interaction for weeks now, rehearsing lines of rebuttal in her head in the bath, in bed, during her morning tea. However, to imagine such an interaction is very, very different than facing one. She could not have conjured the pure look of disdain this woman has for a girl she has never met.

The older woman says nothing, instead looking Rey up and down. For all of the decoration she has, the feathers and the jewels and the dove grey silk of her gown and the silver-white ribbon around her, her dislike is perhaps her most dramatic accessory. She wears it just as proudly as all the rest, lifting her chin up. “I do sincerely hope you realize that you are ruining Lord Solo.”

“With all due respect, madam, it was he who offered his hand,” Rey insists.

“And yet you are the one who accepted.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Miss Jackson.”

She has never heard her name so many times in one week, let alone one night. This one she recognizes as Lord Ulysses Finch, and she turns eagerly in hopes of an ally in this constant battle. “Yes, sir?”

“Forgive me, I have not yet had a chance to introduce myself,” Mr. Finch says. Oh, but he’s even more beautiful up close, offering a smile that radiates warmth and, dare she say, understanding. “I am Lord Finch.”

“A pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

“Lady Morton,” Lord Finch greets, giving a short bow to the woman before her.

“Lord Finch. Lovely to see you again.” By the tone of her voice, Lady Morton suggests that it is truly anything but, and Rey feels a wave of illness rush through her as she turns back to the lord, who offers his hand.

“May I have this dance?”

“I … I do believe Mr. Banfield asked … “ she says, not wanting to seem impolite or improper to anyone, let alone one of her husband-to-be’s closest friends.

“Banfield can wait,” Lord Finch insists, before he’s taking her hand. His own are almost as large as Lord Solo’s, and there’s a comfort in that as she’s lead back to the dancing floor. Her feet ache, but at the very least she is away from the woman who is still staring after her blatantly.

“I thank you, sir,” Rey breathes as the music starts up.

“There is no need to thank me. Lady Morton is quite plain in her dislike of anyone who doesn’t have a title, or anyone who doesn’t use it properly, according to her. And according to her, I don’t use it properly.” He chuckles lowly, coming towards her as the music starts up and offering his hand to her. She takes it, and walks with him, letting the other couples pass beneath their joined and lifted hands according to the music.

“Not properly?” Rey asks.

“I have no interest in marriage at yet, and therefore no wife, and no heir,” Lord Finch explains. “I do suppose she will turn her attention to me, once you and Lord Solo have been wed.”

“I apologize for any distress that may cause you, I was unaware of such a woman and her interests in others’ love lives and status,” she insists.

He laughs. And for the first time since their arrival, she feels more at ease. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Lord Solo standing by, words being exchanged with Mr. Clark and Mr. Dameron. She can see Lady Rose dancing with Lord Finn, the two of them grinning as the music quickens and requires their feet to move faster.

“I cannot help but think that most people in this room have a negative opinion of me,” Rey confesses as soon as she and Lord Finch return to each other, hands joined once more.

“I would agree,” Lord Finch says. “But I would also insist that it does not matter.”

That is what she tells herself, yes. That is what Lord Solo tells her. And that is what Lady Kaydel and Lady Rose tell her, in their letters.

But it is always so hard to believe it, as it is with many matters of truth.

As much as she enjoys dancing, it’s a relief to finally take a cup of sweet wine from her husband-to-be’s hands and sip. And it is wonderful to watch her friends dance, Lady Rose and Lord Finn deciding to go another round with Mr. Dameron and Lady Kaydel joining them.

She can feel a hand at her back. He doesn’t touch her so blatantly openly, no, but there is a tug to the ribbon of her dress, and she turns her cheek slightly towards him. Letting him know she is listening, but not willing to tear her eyes away from the beauty before her.

“You are the handsomest woman in the room,” Lord Solo says under his breath, just low enough for her to hear.

“And you the handsomest man,” she teases back, turning her head to look up at him fully. “Despite your advertisement, my dear, and your insistence against such a fact, it is the truth. The most handsome man in the room, and perhaps all of England.”

Oh, and she is rewarded for it. She can see his pale cheeks flushing, and the tips of his ears beneath his wavy hair. He stares at her openly, before — “But you have seen very little of England, much less all of it.”

“Then you shall have to take me to all of it,” Rey replies, reaching back behind herself to touch his fingers where he’d been playing with her ribbon. She smiles. “And then I shall confirm that my husband is the most handsome man in England.”

It is one of the greatest joys she has ever felt, she thinks, to make her husband blush so red that even Mr. Banfield comments on it, asking if he is too warm.

She teases her fingertips against his before turning to pass her wine to him, and asking Mr. Banfield if he should like to have the next dance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love these two so much. 
> 
> If you love them as much as I do, please leave a comment or a kudo! They make my week so much brighter, and I love hearing from you all.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	16. XVI.

Her feet have never ached so much in her life.

There is a difference between walking for miles, when her steps are steady and even and she is familiar with the feeling of gravel and cobblestone beneath her feet, and stepping at a hurried pace on a marble floor. Jumping, bouncing, hopping. She hadn’t paid much mind to it on the floor itself, her heart racing with excitement and exertion and the music picking up as the night grew darker.

“I fear as though my feet are about to crumble like a stale biscuit,” Rey says. Even the rocking of their carriage makes her ache, and she sighs, tipping her head back against the seat of the carriage. “I’ve never danced so much, or with so many people.”

“Nor have I,” Lord Solo confesses. “I do believe we’ve made our engagement quite known, with how many times we danced.”

“Of no doubt,” she replies, reaching up to pull the pins from her hair. While the weight of her hair against her damp neck and the heat of it aren’t exactly pleasing, at the very least she isn’t getting stabbed. “Your friends are very fine ones, indeed. I will have to thank them the next time we meet. I enjoyed their company, and I hope they enjoyed mine.”

“I’m sure they would have enjoyed the company of any woman I deemed worthy of being my wife, but I do believe that they enjoyed you quite well,” her husband-to-be reassures her. “I would like to invite the Knights to a dinner party. Perhaps have them stay a fortnight, maybe more. It’s been too long since we’ve been hunting.”

Rey hums in agreement, too tired to force her tongue against her teeth to speak. She closes her eyes, holding her hair pins in her hand and very aware that between the gold metal and the gems, she is holding more than she’s ever been worth.

Her heart skips a beat, but she ignores it, instead opening her eyes once more to watch the lord across from her. The moon is high, the silver light just barely illuminating him as he looks out the window. His hand is to his lips, and not for the first time, and she’s certain it won’t be the last, she has to admire how handsome he is. His hands are large, warm, and comforting. Lips full and speaking such sweet things, even in her lowest moments. She can see the moment he notices her staring, can see the way his dark brows furrow, the way he frowns and looks to her.

“What is the matter?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

“On the contrary, everything is right. Righter than it has any right to be,” Rey confesses, smiling. Her cheeks hurt from doing so much of it tonight, but she bears the pain and tilts her head a little in thought. “I was merely thinking of how lucky a woman I am.”

“Lucky?”

“To be marrying you.”

Even in the darkness of evening, she can see his cheeks flush. And she’d bet the value of the pins in her hand that his ears are deepening in color as well. Rey grins as he looks out the window once more.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I would ask for your reasoning, but I have no desire to hear it at present.”

“Just as well,” Rey teases. “If you flush any more, you could rest your cheek against a pot of water and make tea.”

She’s not entirely sure whether it’s the shadow of the carriage curtains, or whether he’s truly flushing deeper, but she still laughs and reaches to brush her fingers against his.

✥

While the spring rain is a nuisance most of the time, there are some days when she enjoys sitting by one of the large windows in the library and looking out into the grey. The water coming down conceals the vast and lush garden, and for a moment it’s almost as though she’s looking out of the window of her hovel once more.

Those were the best days. When she went into town to get something or other, and returned soaked to the bone, shivering from the cool air and the water dripping from her skin. A roaring fire and a fresh dress meant she could sit by the window for hours, occasionally reading one of her few books but for the most part watching the rain come down. It would pound against the rooftop, the occasional drip hitting the pans she’d set out for such a damp day.

There are no pans in the Renberly library. There is a roaring fire, though, and soft cushions, and more books than she’s ever seen in her lifetime. Though the book of sonnets on her lap is fine and beautiful, nothing manmade could compare to watching the rain nourish the ground below, and listening to it like a lullaby.

That is where her husband-to-be finds her, approaching her with a letter in his hand.

“Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks, about ten feet or so from her.

Rey turns, watching him approach. He always looks good in navy, she thinks. He wears black so often, a bit of color is always a fine change. “Very much so, yes,” she replies. “I hope it continues into the night. I always sleep so well when it rains. Even if it meant waking to full pots of water in the morning.”

She tries to pass it off as a tease, as something to be laughed at, and she even tries to smile to encourage him to do so with her, but all she can see in his face is a sort of sadness. Not pity, no, but … regret, perhaps. “Is there something you wish to show me, sir?” Rey asks, nodding to the letter he’s holding.

“Ah.” He looks down at it. “Yes. My mother is coming in a week.”

“Your mother?” Rey asks. “Not your father?”

“He has business elsewhere, but expressed his regrets that he could not join us. He looks forward to coming perhaps before the wedding, and wishes greatly to meet you. It’s simply poor timing. He needs to be in London to receive a shipment and ensure it’s safety.”

“A pity,” she says. “I look forward to meeting him as well. But your mother?”

“I dare say I could hear her excitement as I read it,” Lord Solo says. There’s a bit of laughter in his voice, warmer than the fire roaring nearby, and Rey smiles.

“Are you looking forward to her visit?”

“I am.” He sounds surprised at his own answer, and he moves to sit across from her at the window seat. He almost has to squish into it, the seat designed for someone smaller, perhaps even children. “I now have answers to her questions about matrimony. I am, dare I say, excited for her to meet you. I have no doubt that you two will become close, and I eagerly await such a development.”

“As do I,” Rey confesses. “Her portraits look … warm. Kind.”

“She is.”

“Then I see no reason not to await her visit with eagerness and a bit of impatience,” she says with a grin.

She can feel him shift on the seat, and before she can blink, there are lips against hers. The feeling of the cold glass windowpane against her right side and the _heat_ of her husband-to-be above her is a dizzying contrast. There is a hand upon her neck, pulling her in close, and she reaches for him, feeling the smooth brocade of his waistcoat beneath her fingertips. She grasps the edge and pulls him closer, and grins against his lips when he grunts.

For the past few times she’s kissed him, it’s been like drinking a perfect cup of tea. It warms her chest and soothes her heart, the comfort of him a balm to her soul. But today her heartbeat skips beneath her ribs, her pulse quick and lips eager as she kisses him over, and over, and over again. Her hand slips up to his neck, dipping beneath his cravat momentarily, feeling the soft, smooth skin of his neck. Warm, he’s so warm, especially compared to the chill of the window she’s become familiar with over the past few hours.

“You are divine,” he growls against her mouth. Every time his voice lowers and roughens, it’s as though a fingertip has run down her spine. She shivers, pulling away for a breath and finding that it’s more difficult than she thought to fill her lungs. Her laughter is shaky, one hand still on his neck and the other clutched in his, his fingers grasping hers as she looks up at him.

_Oh._

The way he’s looking at her makes her heart feel as though it’s forgotten how to beat, and her breath stills for a moment as she meets his gaze.

“You said you are a lucky woman to marry me,” Lord Solo says. “What did you mean by that?”

“I thought you had no wish to hear.”

“I didn’t then. I do now. Forgive me if I have similar reservations about your certainty of this marriage, as you do for me.”

_Oh. Oh, no._

Rey sits up further, the fact that he was practically pressing her to the cushions not escaping her. “You are unsure as to whether I wish to marry you?”

“I suppose we both have our anxieties,” he confesses.

“No, no,” Rey says, reaching up to cup his cheek with the hand that was on his neck. She gently strokes his skin with her thumb, the man before her suddenly looking younger than he did a moment ago. “No, I am very … I am more certain of my want to be your wife than I have ever been of anything else in my life. You are … you are kind, and generous, and handsome, though I know you do not think of yourself as such.”

He scoffs, and she moves to grip his jaw in her hand, forcing his gaze to hers. “You are handsome,” she insists. “Regardless of what your advertisement said, you are.”

He turns his head, kissing the palm of her hand and sighing against her skin. “If I had my way, I would rush you down to the chapel and have you today. But I would not do that to my mother, and I am more than sure Mr. Dameron would avoid speaking to me for months if I denied him an invitation. And Lady Rose would be just as upset, though not so immature in her response.”

Rey grins so hard her cheeks stretch and ache, and she leans in to kiss his hand where he is still holding hers. His knuckles have a smudge of ink on them. Writing to his mother, more than likely. “I would follow you eagerly,” she whispers. “But I do wish for our friends to be present.”

Our friends.

How strange it is to call them hers, as well. She had acquaintances in Budrow, to be sure, and perhaps some friends from her childhood, but none she would write to or visit now. Most have left or married, she supposes. And they would hardly remember her, little Rey Jackson with her dirty and ripped dress and shoes with holes in them.

“As do I,” Lord Solo says. “And so we shall wait.”

“As much as I loathe to say it,” Rey teases. “We shall wait.”

“I should wait to do this…” Lord Solo teases back, leaning in to just barely brush his nose against hers, his breath warm against her lips.

“Should,” Rey repeats. “But don’t, I beg of you.”

She can feel his soft chuckle as he kisses her once more. More chaste, and sweeter than before, but no less warm as she hears the rain and the shifting of fabric as he pulls her closer.

✥

The rain refuses to continue into the night, despite her silent pleading, but the sun does emerge mid-afternoon. The ground is still soaked as she walks out into the gardens, mud already soaking the bottom of her dress with just a few steps, but she cares not as she makes her way towards the rose bushes.

The fresh smell of rain warmed by the sun is glorious, and the leaves of the rosebushes have not yet lost their raindrops. They sparkle like diamonds, and she runs her fingers across a few bushes, watching the leaves rustle and the water drop to the leaves below.

Her lips still feel kiss-swollen, her cheeks still warm, though whether it’s from the afternoon sun or her husband-to-be’s touch, it’s hard to tell. Still, she can’t help but smile as she makes her way through the garden with a borrowed basket.

There were gardens in Budrow. For the most part, though, they were kept behind wooden fences and locked gates. The pride of whoever tended them, and there were very few who were willing to part with even one bloom. Of course, they would part with it for a price, but with so many things needed simply to survive, it wasn’t often she got to splurge on such flowers.

And so she gathered the ones in the fields and along the road instead, and the ones that grew outside of her little house. Weeds, yes, but still beautiful.

The idea of having an entire garden to walk through and pick as she pleases is almost absurd. She looks out towards the fountain — the first of several, she’d been told — and the flowers even beyond that. There’s a greenhouse around here somewhere, but she hasn’t come across it yet.

“Can I help you, my lady?”

The woman who approaches her is a little older, perhaps mid-thirties. She wears the clothes of a maid, and Rey blinks for a moment. She’s been approached by those who work at Renberly and serve her husband-to-be before, but she can’t think of why she’s being approached now. And then she sees the shears in the woman’s hand.

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Rey says, reaching for them, and then pausing when the woman pulls her hand back.

“I can cut them for you, my lady,” she offers.

“I thank you for the offer, but I can cut flowers myself,” Rey insists with a smile, holding out her hand for the shears.

She must have done something wrong, she thinks, because the woman frowns as she hands over the shears. Is it not proper to cut flowers herself? Is it not done? It’s apparently frowned upon. “Is something the matter?” she asks.

“You could tell me which ones to cut, my lady,” the woman says, in a tone that suggests that that’s what Rey _should_ be doing.

“I see no reason to,” Rey protests. “I’m capable of handling shears. I thank you for your concern, and very much for your offer of assistance, but I can do this myself, thank you."

Her confusion lingers long after the woman has curtsied, turned, and gone. Rey watches as she returns to the house, before her gaze shifts to the shears in her hand. Though the weather is lovely now, she returns inside after gathering only a handful of pale pink roses, her boots muddied and the hem of her dress wet with rainwater as she makes her way back towards her rooms.

✥

“Can I not pick my own flowers?”

Lord Solo stops, his spoon of soup halfway to his lips, before he looks up at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“One of the maids approached me in the garden,” Rey explains. “She offered to cut the flowers for me.”

“I … have never picked flowers, and I am not to be lady of the house, so I am uncertain of an answer. I apologize, Miss Jackson,” he says, though his full lips deepen into a frown. “Would you like me to write to my mother to inquire?”

“No, no,” Rey insists. “I’ll write Lady Rose or Lady Kaydel, I simply found it … odd. It’s an easy task. It’s one I’ve done for years, even without shears. I’m used to pulling them from the ground. I’m perfectly capable, I don’t need it done for me.”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Lord Solo replies. “There are some habits of yours that may need to be changed, however.”

“I’m well aware,” Rey assures him. “But I can cut my own blooms.”

Something she said must have amused him, because she can see the slightest curve of his lips as he reaches for his wine. “What?” Rey demands. “What has amused you?”

“You,” Lord Solo confesses. “And it’s not so much amusement as that I was reminded as to why I asked you to be my wife. There are many ladies who I have no doubt would gladly accept the chance to let the work be done for them, and yet you insist upon doing it yourself because you are capable. I once again am grateful to your reading the newspaper that day, and coming to inquire regardless of status or distance.”

“I am capable,” Rey agrees. “Capable of walking and conversation and being a wife. A lady, however…”

“I shall ask Mrs. Kanata for the names of potential tutors,” Lord Solo says. “Lady Rose and Lady Kaydel are fine friends, and fine teachers in regards to some matters, but it would please me, and I hope it would ease some of your anxieties, if you were to be taught by someone who is more aware of the intricacies and requirements. I am not as aware of them.”

“I didn’t expect you to be.” All of the sudden, the soup in front of her seems less appetizing, and the chilled juice beside her more so as she reaches for the cool glass. “A tutor. I … yes. I would appreciate it greatly, and am eager to learn. Thank you, my lord.”

Her husband-to-be nods, and not for the first time that evening, she dearly wishes he weren’t entirely across the table, and instead beside her so that she may reach for his hand, indulge in the comfort of his touch as her heart flips at the thought of being taught.

But he is far, and she swallows the lump that has formed in her throat, trying desperately to sip her soup but getting only a few spoonfuls down before she indulges in wine instead.

His offer of reading together in the library is accompanied by a kiss to her brow, and though it comforts her somewhat, she still reaches for his hand, and sighs when his fingers grasp hers.

To learn to be engaged to a lord is one thing. To learn to be a lady, she thinks, will be quite another.


End file.
